


let it shine under the morning star

by orphan_account



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Bruges AU, Historical AU, M/M, Summer Is Coming, and swans are dangerous, belle epoque means gratuitous poetry and my tenuous grasp on the history of cameras
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-06
Updated: 2014-07-06
Packaged: 2018-02-06 10:49:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 22,334
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1855324
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's the summer of 1891, and Bruges has significantly more angry swans and accidental Irish revolutionaries than Harry was anticipating being faced with on his summer holiday. For the HL Summer Fic Exchange.</p>
            </blockquote>





	let it shine under the morning star

**Author's Note:**

  * For [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts).



> This is for ambiglouis, who wanted something summery and historical.
> 
> A note: while the Belle Epoque was a very experimental and enlightened period, it was still the 1800s. However, I don't really like to write about things like homophobia, because life is full enough of that. So please forgive me and ready your suspension of disbelief.
> 
> Onwards!

Morning light is something special.

Harry has felt this in a hundred different ways from the earliest he can remember. As a child, he was an early riser, and would haul the shutters open first thing so he could drink in the colours of the London sky as it came awake.

London has its own palette, mostly whites and greys, but when the smog from the factories cleared away enough but not too much, the sunrises would be brilliant oranges and pinks.

Light refracts when it hits particles in the air, creating colours in the sky. Harry learnt that at school, and it hadn’t diminished his wonder. If anything, it had made it greater, the knowledge that such processes existed in the natural world for him to find beauty in. 

It was unsurprising that he’d drifted towards the camera. He’d been in the crowd when Eastman had unveiled his latest prototype at the London Science Fair, had hung around late until he caught Eastman leaving and begged the man for an internship. He wanted to work with colour, he had explained. He wanted to capture light.

George Eastman had laughed. Harry had just been fourteen, after all.

The sun is beginning to rise as Harry slips onto the balcony of Liam’s apartment, leans over the railing and breathes in the fresh air. The cool brush of night air lingers on his skin, the sky a hazy blue-grey as it passes from night to day through the nebulous in-between. Even so, he can already feel the promise of warmth in the thickness of the air, the stillness, the way it thrums around him.

In the distance, he can see a blush of pink on the horizon. It’s barely there yet, but it hints around the edges of the clouds, picks them out where they’re piled low in the air. He has only been in Bruges three days, but already he has noticed the difference in its sunrises from the vivid fires of London, or the over bright blues of Lyon where he lived these days.

Below his feet, the river is quiet.

In the corner of his eye, Harry sees something white, and when he turns his head he notices a pair of swans meandering downstream towards him. He stills with a gasp of delight, and hastily buttons the front of his crumpled shirt, skipping the first three or so out of haste. Rushing back inside the apartment, Harry finds his once-pressed trousers hanging over the back of a dining chair, and he slips into them. He can’t find his shoes, and he’s not going to take the time to look. His camera is far more of a priority anyway, and the few slices of bread still lying on a tray on the coffee table.

So barefoot and in last night’s attire minus the waistcoat and blazer, Harry flits down the stairwell and out into the street, rounding the block so that he comes to the river banks. He stumbles on approach, narrowly avoiding dropping the bulky piece of equipment to the ground, but then he’s sliding over the stone wall and dropping to the bank below.

The swans are still there, swimming lazy circles in the water, and Harry hastily sets up his box camera for the first picture. His fingers almost shake as rushes through it, terrified of losing the moment, but then it's finally ready and he lines up the angles, the framing, takes his time to breathe deeply and - not that he would ever admit to thinking such a cheesy thought - to become one with the camera. He waits for the moment when the world aligns with his vision.

The swans have noticed him and, perhaps used to receiving bread and seed from passing visitors, have taken an interest. They circle closer and closer each time, and Harry waits, watching through the viewfinder until - _yes_.

The click-boom-whir of the machinery brings a sense of peace to him, a sense of accomplishment that he has captured this moment, preserved it. The swans are close enough that their eyes should be visible, two figures of pure white on a hazy silver river, the brickwork and stone of this ancient city nestled in the background. It will turn out to be beautiful, when he can get back to the factory for development.

Satisfied, Harry wraps his camera back into it’s case, and settles it on a flat rock that juts out of the slope as the swans come closer. Harry shimmies down the rest of the slope until his bare feet hit the water, and the swans are so close he could touch them, if he wanted. They look at him, surveying him expectantly, waiting for the smattering of gifts. Harry remembers what he’d slipped into his pocket, and pulls out one of the slivers of sourdough, begins to tear it into small chunks to scatter in the water. The swans snap it up happily, and one of them decides it’s had enough, turns and skims back out onto the river.

The other, though. It’s watching him with this kind of calculating swan look, which was not something Harry thought swans could do. It looks at him, and looks at his pocket, and if Harry didn’t know better he’d have sworn the swan was aware that there was more bread in there. But that’s a bit ridiculous, a swan couldn’t possibly put that much together.

Still, Harry fishes around for a second slice, and throws it into the water in two halves. That should occupy the swan, keep it busy for-

The bread is gone in seconds. It reminds Harry of their friend Niall at the end of a long day in the lab, if he hadn’t had a meal for several hours. The usually affable boy would arrive at dinner, and proceed wordlessly to inhale everything edible within metres of them. Only then would he return to his formative cheerful self.

Actually, Harry hasn’t seen Niall in about a year, not since Niall went back to Dublin for university. Perhaps he got turned into a bird by foul magic.

Niall-Swan is staring at him again.

Niall-Swan knows about the third slice.

Harry reaches cautiously into his pocket, his eyes not leaving the large and aggressively hungry bird in front of him. Niall-Swan watches him, tense and anticipatory.

And as soon as the third and last slice sees daylight, Niall-Swan pounces.

Harry has never been attacked by a large bird before, so this is a new experience to him. The swan latches onto the bread with it’s beak, it’s wings beating wildly at Harry, whacking into him with surprising force. And maybe Harry should just release the bread, but he’s kind of annoyed? This swan is taking advantage of his kindness and hospitality. This swan doesn’t deserve the bread.

Ok, this swan is kicking him now. Swans can kick. Harry probably shouldn’t be surprised by this considering they spend their lives paddling and therefore must have fairly good leg muscles, but he can’t say it’s the kind of thing he associates with swans.

“Gah!” cries Harry as a swan foot connects with his stomach.

“Waaaak,” cries the swan in a kind of angry trumpet noise, and Harry decides he’s out. 

He lets go of the bread, and the swan yanks it from him with such force that he stumbles and trips, falling hands down on his knees in the shallows onto the crunch of pebbles. The cool water soaks into his sleeves and pants and splashes into his eyes, and he sputters as he looks up to see the swan paddling away serenely, as if it hadn’t just assaulted a well-meaning bystander over a free meal.

“Ungrateful,” Harry grumbles, pushing himself up so that’s he’s kneeling in the shallows of the river, the water rippling gently past him.

“Not sure that’s a concept swans understand mate,” says a soft voice behind him, and Harry glances up and over his shoulder.

Harry's first thought is _river god_ , because he’s looking at golden skin and eyes of arctic water and the most ethereal smile. But no, on closer inspection this man is human. His skin, though naturally coppery, has a tired kind of pallor to it, and there are dark circles under his electric eyes.

“You know a lot about swans?” Harry asks, and the beautiful, burnt out boy shrugs.

“Not in the slightest.” 

He offers a hand, which Harry looks at, then up at him. “Unless you want to stay in the river,” the Almost River God adds with a smirk, and Harry laughs. He accepts the hand, lets himself be pulled onto his feet.

“Who’re you then?” Harry asks, shaking some pond weed of his foot.

“Swan ate your shoes too?” Almost River God asks instead of answering, glancing at Harry’s bare feet.

“Probably would have if he’d had the chance,” Harry sighs, wiping wet gravel onto his trousers. “I thought swans were meant to be graceful and serene."

“Like many things in life, they aren’t as they seem,” Almost River God intones in a wise and wistful voice, and then his face cracks and he’s laughing. “We might have to get revenge,” he adds, his eyes tracking the small white dot as it rounds the river bend and disappears. 

“I don’t think I could hurt a swan,” Harry admits, frowning at the now empty river as his irritation with the birds dissipates. He can never really be angry for long. Also, he doesn't really want to go up against a swan ever again. “They’re just being themselves."

When he glances back, his new companion is staring at him, head tilted a little to the side as though trying to decide what to make of him.

“So you can’t be a local then, if you’re trying to feed the swans,” Almost River God ponders, looking Harry up and down. 

“Not a local. Here staying with a friend for summer. M’ Harry,” Harry offers with a shrug, and Almost River God smiles.

“Pleased to meet you Harry.”

“So you are one then?” Harry asks, and gets a look of confusion in response. 

“One what?”

“A local,” Harry clarifies, and Almost River God shakes his head.

“Nah, just got in like an hour ago,” he says, to Harry’s surprise. “I’m looking for someone who I remember living somewhere around here. Liam Payne?”

“Oh!” Harry exclaims, with a gesture towards Liam’s balcony that sets him off balance and nearly lands him in the river again. Almost River God has the presence of mind to reach out and steady him though, his hand settling on Harry’s waist as he laughs.

“You’re your own worst enemy, aren’t you Harry?” Almost River God grins, and Harry shrugs.

“I’ve been told that once or twice,” he admits with a smile. “Liam’s a friend of mine, I came from his place."

“You’re staying with Liam?”

“No, with Zayn Malik?” Harry corrects, and the way Almost River God nods would indicate he knows Zayn too. “But last night there was…wine. I just borrowed his couch."

“So if you’re just borrowing, I don’t have to fight you for it?” Almost River God asks, nodding towards the suitcase that Harry has noticed for the first time, settled on the wall behind them.

“You don’t,” Harry confirms, wading properly out of the river. He pauses for a moment to take in the pink and orange that has spread across the horizon, the grey light turning to gold and setting off sparkles on the water’s surface. 

“Louis,” Almost River God says from behind him, and when Harry turns Louis’ eyes are on the horizon too. “I’m Louis."

“Hi Louis,” Hary tells him. He turns to pick up his belongings.

“Is that a camera?” Louis asks curiously, watching as Harry hoists the large box onto his hip.

“Uh, yeah,” Harry tells him in surprise. Most people think he just has a thing for awkwardly shaped luggage. “I work at the Lumierre factory.”

“Oh, the brothers! I’ve seen them speak at a university talk,” Louis exclaims in interest, which startles Harry even further. Most people had never heard of them. 

“They’re pretty amazing, they have all these ideas for how still pictures might be able to move one day. All on their own, can you imagine!” Harry grins, carried away a little by enthusiasm for his subject. “I work on prototypes for camera paper,” he adds, shifting the camera box on his hip to indicate it’s purpose. 

“Friend of mine used to work with cameras. So does this make you a scientist or an artist?” Louis asks, and Harry smiles.

“I like to think that the most successful people manage to be both.”

Louis laughs at this. “You’re odd, Harry. Please take that as a compliment.”

“I intend to,” Harry grins. “Come on.”

He hoists himself over the wall. Louis does too, but as he lands on the other side he stumbles slightly, one hand gripped to his leg.

“Are you ok?” Harry says, reaching to steady him by the shoulder. Closer now, he can see just how pale Louis is, how the lines of his face are taught with tension and his eyes are rimmed with discolouration like crushed berry stains.

Louis nods tightly, his eyes flickering to where he’s grasping his leg, and when Harry follows their movement he notices that Louis’ tan pants are flecked with something reddish-brown.

“Louis are you-“

“I’m fine,” Louis mutters, straightening up. “To Liam?”

“This way,” Harry replies uncertainly, because he is fairly certain Louis’ thigh has some kind of bleeding situation going on. But if getting Louis to Liam will help, then that’s the plan. Harry can’t fault it, Liam is usually the person who fixes his problematic situations. He’s a surprisingly capable human being considering he’s deathly afraid of spoons.

Harry still turns and picks up Louis’ suitcase for him, because it seems to be the only thing Louis will allow him to help with.

They walk slowly along the narrow cobbled street, Harry with suitcase and camera box, Louis very distinctly limping, his lips a tight line across his face. When they reach the apartment, it’s only two flights of stairs up to Liam’s landing, but Louis is wincing in pain to the extent that Harry is tempted to just pick him up and throw him over his shoulder.

“Don’t,” Louis says, when Harry voices this opinion. “Just get Liam?”

So Harry leaves Louis to conquer the second half of the stairs out of sheer stubborn will, and slips into the apartment.

It’s still, undisturbed, the wash of early morning light painting the walls a burnished caramel. Harry walks softly towards Liam’s bedroom, finds him sprawled on the bed face down, with Zayn on the mattress beside him. Zayn is curled in towards Liam in sleep, Liam's am thrown over to encircle him, and though they're both clothed, Harry takes a minute to eye the situation. He’s never quite been certain that their “we’re just friends” party line was all there was to it.

“Liam,” Harry whispers, leaning over Zayn’s prone form and poking Liam in the shoulder. “Li, hey, wake up.”

“Hmm?” Liam replies, his eyes flickering open blearily. “Harry? What time is it?”

“Early, sorry Li. You have a visitor though.”

“I do?” Liam asks, confused. “I shouldn’t.”

He rolls sideways, somehow managing to get to his feet in a surprisingly coordinated movement. He follows Harry, and when they reach the front door Louis is leaning against the balustrade of the landing, brushing his shirt down and straightening his braces in what Harry might have guessed was a fit of nerves. He glances up at their approach, straightens himself, and Liam stops dead in his tracks.

“Louis?” he murmurs, brow furrowed, and Louis shrugs.

“Hey Li.” He steps forward, but it’s on his hurt leg, and as he stumbles Liam rushes forward to catch him.

“Louis, what in God’s name happened to you?”

“Spot of trouble back home,” Louis says weakly, and _Jesus_ but his skin is pale as a ghost now. “Niall’s fault.”

“Niall?” Harry asks in confusion, the shock of hearing a name he’d just been thinking of from a stranger's lips distorting his reaction.

“What did you do?” Liam asks flatly, somewhere in the vicinity of a disapproving parent.

“Got expelled,” Louis tells him, and it’s almost meek. As though he feels Liam’s disappointment deep in his core.

“From university?”

“Uh, no. From the country.”

He says it in such a matter-of-fact tone that it hits Harry with twice the level of surprise, and he inhales so quickly he begins to cough. Liam and Louis whip round to stare at him, eyebrows raised in surprise as though they’d forgotten he was there.

“Uh, sorry,” Harry gets out weakly, stepping aside so that Liam can support Louis into the apartment. “How do you get expelled from a country?”

“With great skill and dedication,” Louis replies, grinning at Harry with what was clearly intended to be blinding challenge and charm, but in his state was really just kind of a weak glimmer. Liam sets him down on the sofa, and Louis sinks back into the cushions, eyes closed.

“How did you find him?” Liam asks Harry, but before Harry can answer Louis interrupts.

“He, found me? I saved him from a hell beast, I’ll have you know. Your friend here nearly got eaten by a river demon.”

When Liam glances enquiringly at Harry, Harry shrugs, always willing to go along with something ridiculous. “It’s true. I’m indebted to him with my life.”

Liam looks between the two of them in confusion, but seems to let it go.

“Let me get Zayn, he’ll help with your leg,” Liam sighs, vanishing from the common area.

Theres a few seconds of silence between them as Louis shifts on the couch, trying to get comfortable, and Harry wonders if he should say something to this strange, beautiful vision that seems to have suddenly fallen into his existence. But he’s saved the trouble when Louis finally glances up, eyes alight with interest.

“So who are you?” Louis asks, squinting at Harry a little as though trying to see straight through him. “I mean, besides angry swan bait and someone called Harry."

“Who am _I_?” Harry replies in mock indignation as he settles onto the arm of the sofa, his feet tucked up onto the cushions. “Who are you, Louis? I’ve never heard of you before today.”

“You mean Liam doesn’t carry a photo of me in a locket? That bastard,” Louis gasps dramatically, and he manages a smile as his eyes close fully. “We grew up together, before I left for Ireland.”

“Ireland?”

“Yeah, after my dad… Um, my mother had to raise me and my siblings. She found work as a housemaid in Ireland. British family of employers, didn’t trust the locals. Awful people,” Louis sighs. “I was fifteen. Finished my schooling there, got into the Royal University. I was going to be an engineer.”

He’s cut off by the sound of Zayn’s complaining wafting from the hall, and then Liam appears with his sulking friend in tow.

“…..before nine in the morning, Liam, you know I don’t- Louis?” Zayn stops, startled.

“I told you it was a good reason,” Liam mutters, rounding the couch. “Louis, you’re going to have to take your trousers off.”

“I’m not that kind of woman, I’ll have you know,” Louis replies, pressing a hand in fake shock to his chest, but he obliges anyway, shimmying out of the garment without getting up from his seat. Harry tries not to let his eyes drift towards Louis’ crotch. It's an attractive man sitting bare-legged next to him after all, and Harry is only human. But then his eyeline catches on the wound on Louis’ thigh, and the sharp intake of breath it provokes simultaneously in Zayn is enough to worry him.

Zayn shakes his head in disbelief. “Jesus Louis, what did that?”

“A very angry dog,” Louis replies, shifting closer to Harry’s arm of the chair so that Zayn can settle on the other side. “I had to take some unorthodox routes to get here."

“Liam, have you got-” Zayn asks, but Liam’s already holding out a bottle of rubbing alcohol and a needle and thread, having anticipated Zayn’s needs. Liam does that almost instinctively most days. Zayn's background in art and fashion has come in handy more than once - he's as good as sewing flesh as he is fabric. “This is going to hurt, Lou.”

“I figured,” Louis mutters, looking away sharply as Zayn splashes some liquid onto cloth and swabs at Louis' leg. His face contorts in pain as his gaze finds Harry, voice weak as he asks, “Where was I?”

“University,” Harry supplies, and Louis nods as Liam settles into a dining chair nearby. Zayn begins to thread the needle, and Harry can't watch as he ties it off. He's never been great with blood.

“Right, so I met Niall while I was there. Liam actually introduced us, I think you know him?”

Harry nods, and Louis continues. “We became fast friends, he’s the best. Very into the Irish Home Rule movement. So I joined him in that, because student politics are fun, and potential revolutions are more fun. Or, I mean, I thought they’d be fun. As it transpires-” Louis winces as Zayn’s needle cuts into his thigh, biting his lip as his words cut off.

“As it transpires,” Harry helps, seeking Louis’ gaze and holding the contact, willing him to focus on something other than the pain he must be experiencing.

“Revolutions are only fun in theory,” Louis continues, his voice a weak echo of it’s former strength, breathing a little ragged as Zayn’s needle begins to weave his skin back together. “You get news of Parnell out here in the land of clogs?”

“Clogs are the Netherlands, not Belgium,” Zayn states dryly, and Louis rolls his eyes.

“Chocolate then.”

Liam seems to ignore this exchange, nodding thoughtfully. “The Irish MP who had an affair, right?”

“Right,” Louis says, and then, “fuck, Zayn.”

“Sorry,” Zayn apologises, for whatever he’d done. Louis shakes his head.

“Irish people are a strange lot. One politician has an affair with a married woman, and suddenly everything he stood for - which in this case was Irish independence - gets undermined. Completely stuffed up the cause, divided his party, caused fucking riots in some cities when he got ousted.”

“Tell me you didn’t get involved in a riot, Louis,” Liam sighs, leaning forward onto his arms as he watches Louis with imploring eyes. Louis shakes his head.

“I didn’t, but I might as well have. There was a clash on our campus, students against police, and see, Niall and I were prominent names in the Students for Independent Ireland group that got blamed for it. We weren’t even there, but the police don’t care to check that fact. There’s a warrant out for our arrest now. I think an officer got put in a coma. An Englishman, of course. Makes the whole thing worse.”

“Jesus Louis,” Zayn murmurs, cutting the string off. “This is serious.”

“You think I’m here for a much-needed vacation?” Louis intones, and Harry realises for the first time that underneath his dry inflection and the hard-as-iron deprecation, there’s actually the edge of something a little hysterical to his words. As though all that surface chicanery was just a ruse to distract - who, his audience? Or himself?

“I can’t go home," Louis continues, a little quieter now, and Harry finally _sees_. "Not to Dublin, or Ireland, or the entirety of Britain. They’ll arrest me and charge me without hearing a word I have to say. I can’t go home, Zayn.”

His voice catches on the name, and he closes his eyes, breathing deeply. Harry thinks he might be willing himself not to cry.

“Done,” Zayn declares, sitting back. “Where’s Niall?”

Louis takes a moment to reply, getting himself under control. “He’s coming on a train tonight,” Louis mutters, his voice steadier again. His eyes flicker open again, catching Liam in a stare. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know where else to go, Li.”

“It’s ok, Louis,” Liam murmurs. “You can stay with me. We’ll figure it out.”

And everything about Louis seems to crumble, as though he’d been tensed this entire time, unsure if he was somewhere safe just yet. It’s a marked change, and he seems vulnerable all of a sudden, a little bit lost. Harry feels a surprising urge to stand over him, to protect him. It’s an odd sensation that courses through him, and he has to remind himself that he met Louis less than an hour ago.

“You should get some sleep, Lou,” Zayn says, standing from the couch. “Harry, we should go home.”

Harry wants to protest, because that sudden wash of protective emotion hasn’t quite subsided yet, and the thought of leaving Louis to sleep without someone to watch over him is an unpleasant one. But his gaze falls on where Liam is still sitting, chin on his forearms as he guards Louis, and Harry shakes himself. Louis won’t be alone, and Harry isn’t needed in the slightest.

He blinks, and for the first time that morning he realises how exhausted he is. That’s where all this unnecessary feeling is coming from. He should go back with Zayn, get some more sleep.

“Sounds good,” Harry agrees, and when Louis catches his eye with the slightest of furrowed brows, Harry smiles at him. “Get some rest.”

“Pleased to have met you, Harry,” Louis murmurs sincerely, and Harry tries not to shiver with it.

“I’ll be around,” Harry replies, and this smoothes Louis’ brow. As though he’d been worried that Harry might disappear into the ether. But that’s probably just wishful thinking on Harry’s part.

Harry really, really needs sleep.

“Come on,” he says, gesturing at Zayn. As Louis settles onto his side, his coat pulled over him like a blanket, Harry pulls the door closed behind him.

 

*

 

Niall arrives on the half ten train that night.

Harry learns this because at ten almost to the minute, Liam is on Zayn’s doorstep, drumming on the door.

“Can you watch over Louis?” Liam asks them as soon as the door opens, and Harry nods without even thinking. 

“You’re going to get Niall?” Zayn asks, peering round him at the closed carriage and horses that are waiting in the street, and then, “I’m coming too.”

Liam doesn’t argue. He never does with Zayn, not when it’s important.

When Harry arrives at Liam’s apartment again, it’s dark inside, the gas lamps having been left burning low. He steps quietly into the apartment, and can hear Louis’ slow and steady breathing from the couch even before his eyes adjust to the gloom. He’s asleep, again or perhaps still, and Harry tiptoes around him and out onto the balcony.

Back once more on the deck where he’d begun the day, Harry leans over the railing, eyes trailing the river once more. It fascinates him how the composition of the landscape can change so dramatically just with light. Shades and shadows, reflections and distortions; he’d loved the various qualities of light since he was a boy, and had played with his mother’s mirrors in the back of the shop. Unable to shake his fascination, it had drawn him to seek out the Lumierre factory in France after leaving school four years ago, instead of taking a respectable job in the family watchmaker business.

Not a single day has passed in which he’s regretted it. His work on cameras fulfils both his love of technology and his artistic impulses. And he’d met Niall at the factory, employed as an extra hand over the summer, who’d introduced him to Zayn and Liam. These boys were his family now, with his parents and sister back in England.

Harry lowers himself down, slips his legs through the wooden railing and rests his chin on one of the horizontal supports. The reflection of the waning moon shimmers in the current below his feet.

“You seem rather transfixed by that river,” says a voice behind him, and Harry hears the rustle of fabric. Before he can even turn, Louis has taken a seat beside him, though his injured leg is splayed to the side along the deck rather than curved through the railings. He’s wearing trousers, so Harry can’t see where his leg must be bandaged, and his suspenders hang at his waist.

“I adore summer here,” Harry replies with a smile that he can hear reflected back in his words. “It’s only been a week, but I’m in love.”

“You’re a romantic,” Louis laughs, but there’s no edge of judgement in his tone.

“I know my own heart, that’s all,” Harry replies gently, eyes still on the water. “Bruges kind of seems to float, doesn’t it? All that water, the bridges, the way the trees bend out over the canals like they’re being pulled by gravity. And the air, it’s so sweet. All that, and the way the sunlight hits the roofs, I feel like I’m in the clouds.” Harry comes to a halt suddenly, pulling his words to a stop. He has an unfortunate tendency to let his tongue run in strange directions, and with his naturally slow and morbid tone, he knows it can get on peoples' nerves. But when he glances sideways at Louis, instead of disbelief or scorn, he sees a burst of warmth directed at him.

“I kind of get that,” is what Louis says, glancing away. Harry watches his fringe shift with the movement, brushing against cheekbones lit by stars. Then something seems to shake through Louis, and his posture stiffens a little. “ _Such_ a bloody romantic,” he laughs, the naked sincerity vanished from his voice, and he jostles slightly so that his arm nudges Harry. Harry can’t help but laugh too. 

“What can I say, I studied poetry at school.” It’s true. He knows Byron and Shelley by heart.

“ _But let me see thee stoop from heaven on wings that fill the skies with silver glitterings_ ,” Louis murmurs, to Harry’s great surprise.

“Keats!” he can’t help but exclaim in delight, and Louis turns that lantern grin on him again.

“Engineers can know poetry too, Professor Coleridge,” Louis replies haughtily, his eyes still laughing, “It’s not the 18-bloody-40s.”

“What kind of engineer are you going to be?” Harry asks curiously, and Louis smiles.

“Bridges, maybe. But amazing ones.”

“Naturally,” Harry concedes, and Louis’ smile widens.

“Have you been to Victoria Station?” When Harry shakes his head no, Louis continues, “You have to, one day. It’s the most fantastic building, though maybe not what most people think of as beautiful these days. It’s roof is this immense, metallic skeleton, and the light pours in between every spoke and beam and support. So it's delicate, but has this intense kind of strength. It's like, perfect transparency in architecture. Perfect vision and purpose."

He trails off, perhaps a little self-conscious now that he’s the one rambling excitedly in his fast, clipped tone, but Harry is captivated. When Louis speaks, his every emotion is amplified and projected in the tiniest of micro-expressions on his face. To the average person, it could be easily missed, especially if they’re deterred by the dry, almost mocking tone Louis seems to slip into on instinct. But Harry is used to working with the tiniest of pieces, has an eye for detail, and Louis is as fascinating a person as he’s ever met. Like white light, maybe - it appears as one thing at first, but refracts into every colour in existence under the right circumstances. 

Louis has stopped talking, and Harry realises he is bordering on staring. He shakes himself, and to fill in the pause, Harry says, “So all that, but with bridges?”

This prompts another laugh from Louis, just a small one. It echoes in his eyes and tugs at the corners of his lips before he seems to press it down. 

“All that, but with bridges,” he confirms, but the humour slips from his voice like quicksand. “I mean, I was going to be a bridge engineer. Now I don’t know.” 

Louis huffs out a sigh, leaning back on his hands, and the energy that had just now filled him like a hot air balloon has dissipated.

“There’s plenty of good universities in Europe,” Harry tells him, hoping to try and spark the warmth back into Louis’ eyes. But Louis has deflated now, and when Harry chances another look at his face, it’s drawn and tired, his eyes unfocused on the tree branches that sway over their heads and dip towards the riverbank.

“Plenty, yeah,” Louis says vaguely, his voice far away and unconvincing. He pushes himself slowly to his feet, waving Harry off when he makes a move to offer assistance. “It’s nice to talk to you Harry. This morning too. You’re…” He seems to run out of words though, just offers a shrug as he turns. “I’ll be inside.”

“Ok,” Harry replies, resisting the urge to follow. He lets Louis have his space, instead remaining in the night air, listening to the hum of insects and nocturnal birds.

It’s another ten minutes before the door to the apartment opens, and three people spill inside.

“Niall!” Harry exclaims over his shoulder, hauling himself off the balcony. He launches himself inside the apartment, latching on to his friend in record timing. “You colossal twat!”

“Glad to see you too,” Niall laughs, returning the hug with surprising immediacy despite Harry practically bowling into him.

“Are you hurt?” Harry asks, feeling like he should probably let go of Niall and check, but he doesn’t want to. Instead he just squeezes Niall a littler tighter, and Niall shifts slightly so that his shoulders fit better against Harry’s collarbones. Let it never be said that there is a better hugger in the world than one Niall Horan.

“Why would I be hurt? I mean, apart from my ego,” Niall laughs, and Harry releases him in surprise.

“But Louis- ”

“Is fine, Harry,” says Louis’ voice from behind him. “Incident with a police dog not withstanding.”

“Jesus, you unlucky bugger,” Niall mutters, reaching out to grasp Louis’ shoulder. “We made it though, didn’t we? Knew this was the right place. I see you’ve met Harry.”

Harry nods, looking around at the five of them. Zayn closes the apartment door behind him, and Liam grins.

“The gang’s all together, boys,” he says cheerfully, as though this were an impromptu holiday rather than a case of refugees seeking asylum. 

Louis laughs, and Harry catches the slightest tremor in his tone. His eyes are swimming with something that Niall catches and shares, the two of them weighed down by what they’ve just outrun. Then Niall drops his hand from Louis, and grins with something true and genuine on his features.

“The gang’s all together,” Niall repeats gaily, just a hint of underlying emotion in his words.

It’s a strange moment, a kind of tacit understanding passing between the five of them perhaps, even as Liam moves to find a bottle of much needed wine and Zayn helps him gather the glasses. That maybe Louis and Niall have been through something the others can’t quite fathom, but even so, they’re all in this together now. 

And as Harry looks around at the relief on all their faces, feels the sweet summer night blowing gently throw the open balcony doorway carrying the sound of frogs from the river, he hopes the others feel it too. That they’re never on their own.

 

*

 

Harry and Zayn hadn’t stayed late; despite his enthusiasm for the company, it was clear that Niall was exhausted by his trip, and Louis was still recovering from his own experiences. They left the three of them and returned home, but not without extending the offer of breakfast company. 

It is a solitary Niall who joins Harry and Zayn for breakfast in the square the next morning, at a cafe beneath the belfry’s shadow that is a little overpriced, but speaks English and serves amazing coffee. Harry tries not to feel a little disappointed at the lack of Louis accompanying him. After all, he hasn’t seen Niall for what now feels like an age, and the minute they begin to talk it’s as though no time has passed between them.

Niall, to his credit, remains remarkably upbeat for someone who had been forcibly expelled from his home country.

“So now if I set foot on British soil, they’ll extradite me back to Dublin,” Niall explains, gesturing exuberantly with his croissant. “English bastards. Present company excluded, of course. You’re spiritual Irishmen to me.”

“Appreciate it,” Zayn mutters dryly through a mouthful of bacon, and Harry looks curiously at Niall.

“Can’t you stand trial though? I mean, you weren’t even at the riot.”

An odd expression passes briefly over Niall's face, and Harry can't quite place it. “Yeah," Niall sighs, "but we’ve got no evidence of that. Louis and I were together studying. Studying! For our bloody engineering exams!” He shakes his head. “Nah, there’s way too much agitation in the air now. Happens every time the Irish get their act together, start making waves about independence. The big old British ruffled shirts have to ride in on their white horses and quell the peasant uprising. And what better way then to make examples out of lower class engineering students that no one will miss.”

“I’d miss you, Ni,” Zayn says, reaching over to pat Niall on the head.

“I know you would Zayn,” Niall says cheerfully, returning the gesture. “S’why I’m here, isn’t it.”

“I’m glad you’re here,” Harry tells him forcefully, and Niall rolls his eyes fondly.

“You lot have gotten sappy in my absence,” he snickers, and then suddenly launches himself at Harry, nearly dragging the tablecloth off as he goes. “I love you boys,” he sighs, folding himself into Harry’s arms, and Harry pulls him into his lap. 

“We love you too Nialler,” Harry agrees, closing his eyes against the warmth of his friend, and Zayn snorts from across the table.

“You’re both idiots. Pass the marmalade, would you?”

After breakfast, Zayn agrees to show Niall the church that is currently acting as a show gallery for his paintings. Harry has seen it many times now, and opts instead to take in the beautiful, bright morning. He ambles slowly through Bruges, past the fish market where spirited wares hawkers are selling fresh food and produce to the townspeople, and pauses on the little wrought iron bridge that crosses one of the smaller canals near Liam’s place. He smiles as he runs his fingers over the latticework, wondering if Louis would appreciate it.

And, Harry is beginning to wonder if he has magical powers hitherto unknown. Yesterday he’d thought of Niall, and produced the man within the day. Now, the second Louis crosses his mind, he looks up to find the subject of his pondering down on the banks of the river.

It’s definitely Louis, Harry can see the scruff of his hair and the braces that hang by his side instead of sitting on his shoulders. He’s sat beneath a tree on a patch of impossibly green grass, barefoot with his knees drawn up to his chest and a fountain pen in one hand. There’s paper settled on the tops of his knees. 

It’s picturesque, and quiet, and a nearby patch of white elder and purple comfrey is attracting butterflies of a hue that almost matches Louis’ eyes. Harry can’t stop his feet from stepping off the bridge and heading in Louis’ direction.

“Good morning,” Harry announces as he approaches, and is relieved to see that Louis’ expression starts into a grin when they make eye contact.

“It kind of is,” Louis agrees, craning his neck as Harry comes to stand over him.

“What are you up to?” Harry asks, leaning against the tree bark and feeling it snag his shirt a little. Louis runs a hand through his hair, pushing it out of his eyes as he looks up at Harry.

“Letter. To my mother,” he explains, tapping the fountain pen against the paper. The smile falters. “I have to explain everything. I have to tell her that I’m not… that I’m never…” 

He sighs, squeezing his eyes shut and trailing off as his head falls back against the tree trunk with a thud that makes Harry wince. It’s as though he’s berating himself for being unable to say the words.

“You’re letting her know you’re safe,” Harry supplies, settling on the ground beside Louis. “You’re letting her know you have the chance to start fresh. It could have been worse, Lou. You’re safe. She’ll be glad to hear that.”

Louis cracks his eyes open a tiny bit, squinting at Harry for several long moments before his troubled expression dissipates into a smile tinged by curiosity.

“How are you so upbeat all the time?” Louis asks, watching Harry with a hooded gaze, and Harry shrugs as he lets himself roll backwards into the long grass. It’s cool against his skin where his sleeves are rolled up.

“I’m not. There’s just a lot to be happy about,” Harry replies, watching the leafy canopy that sprawls above him, a patchwork sky of green. “Even in the worst of times. There’s always something to hold on to.”

“Hmmm,” Louis says, his tone giving nothing away, but before Harry can shift to try and see his expression, Louis moves one of his bare feet to prod Harry in the side with a toe. It prompts an uncontrollable giggle from Harry as it hits his ticklish spot.

“Like a cat,” Louis muses, poking at Harry again as Harry bats his foot away.

“Cruelty!” Harry declares, rolling sideways out of the reach of Louis’ toe, and Louis smirks.

“Just putting you in your place!” Louis answers, throwing himself forward onto his knees to loom over Harry, poking him in the ribs again as Harry curls in on himself, helpless with laughter.

“I surrender! I surrender, Louis, I surrender,” Harry gasps, and Louis is laughing too. He halts his attack, letting his own body collapse onto it’s front on the grass beside Harry, propping himself up on his elbows.

“That’ll teach you to be an optimist,” Louis mutters dryly, but he winces as he looks down at Harry.

"What's wrong?" Harry wonders, and Louis inclines his head towards his legs.

"Think I was a bit rough on Zayn's stitchwork," Louis murmurs, balancing his weight onto one elbow so he can check down his body. No blood has come through the bandaging beneath his trousers though, so it seems to be fine.

"You need to be more careful," Harry muses, watching, and Louis laughs at this.

"Not the first time I've been told that." He settles cautiously into the grass, smirking at Harry. "Maybe if you hadn't provoked me with such unbridled enthusiasm."

“I can’t help it,” Harry replies, stretching out his arms over his head as his hands loop together. “Summer gets me like this.”

“I’ve always like the cold best,” Louis admits. “When the frost covers over everything, and you can see your breath mist in the air.”

“I like long days, the heat, the way everything just kind of settles,” Harry tells him, his head tilted to one side as he watches a solitary passing cloud. “It’s like the world becomes blurred at the edges, less intense, you know? Like nothing’s wrong, nothing could be wrong. Or any problem that needs to be solved, it can be. You have all the time and peace and quiet in the world. ”

There's silence between the two of them, save for the burble of the nearby water and the chirp of insects. Louis’ face is turned towards the river, and for a second Harry thinks he needs to say something to fill the quiet, but then Louis laughs, points at something Harry can’t see without rolling onto his front.

“There’s a swan,” Louis declares, and Harry snorts as he tilts his head all the way back, tries to see it upside down.

“Which swan? Is it Druscilla?”

“Dru- what? You named the swan that attacked you?” Louis asks in bemusement, and Harry manages a nod.

“I thought it was a boy, but Zayn said not. I don’t know how he knows. Maybe he’s just messing with me. Anyway, it seemed fitting. Elegant, but dangerous.” Harry could roll over and look, he could, but it would just take so much energy. “It’s probably not her. We’d already be under fire if it was.”

“Yeah, this one seems pretty relaxed,” Louis agrees, shifting onto his side so that, with Harry’s own head tilted sideways, they can see each other.

He wriggles a little, brow knitting together, and then manages to extricate his fountain pen from underneath his shoulder.

“Oops,” Louis says cheerfully, and then his eyes fix on something just above Harry’s eye-line, and in the next heartbeat he’s reaching out. Harry swears his breath stutters in his throat as he realises he’s holding it, waiting, and more importantly, wanting. Wanting Louis to- to- he doesn’t know. 

Then Harry feels the brush of Louis’ fingers in his hair, and suddenly a leaf is being twirled in front of his eyes.

“You’re collecting nature by accident. You need a haircut.”

“I need no such thing,” Harry protests, blowing out a gust of air so that the leaf flutters out of Louis’ grip and out of their sight.

"Can I ask you something?" Louis asks suddenly, his tone  verging on distracted, and Harry replies,

"Mmm?"

“What you said before,” Louis sighs, playing with the blades of grass beneath his fingers. “About my mother. You think she’ll be glad to hear from me?” He pulls, and they're ripped from the earth.

“Why wouldn’t she be?” Harry asks, and Louis shrugs, brushing fingers along the top of the soil.

“It’s just, she didn’t like that I was involved with politics. Even just as a student. She didn’t like any of that stuff.”

“Well,” Harry says quietly, “you can’t take it back now.”

“No,” Louis agrees. “No, I can’t.”

“So the next best thing to do is to let her know you’re ok. That you’re figuring this out. That you can start over, Lou. So that next time you write to her, perhaps it will be with a visiting address,” Harry finishes, and Louis’ hesitant expression melts into a smile. It spreads to his eyes, forming little lines in their corners.

“Mothers must love you when their daughters bring you home,” Louis notes dryly, and Harry laughs self-consciously, feeling rather exposed in the quiet and calm of the afternoon.

“I don’t get brought home by their daughters,” he admits boldly, closing his eyes so that it’s easier to say. “I’m uh, I’m not like that. Not that way inclined.”

There’s a few seconds of silence, and Harry can’t quite bring himself to check what Louis’ expression is doing. But then Louis snorts.

“‘Not that way inclined’? Jesus Harry, didn’t realise you were brought up in the Queen’s court.”

“Hey!” Harry laughs, eyes flying open to find Louis’ full of mirth. “How would you prefer to put it?”

“Fan of the trouser snake?” Louis declares gamely, and Harry bursts into surprised laughter,

“Very classy,” Harry replies, trying to ignore the way his heart has begun to beat a little faster, and little stronger, because Louis hadn’t minded what Harry was. Which didn’t mean anything, of course. Didn’t mean Louis was too. 

Besides, even if he is, Louis doesn’t have the time for someone else in his life. Not at this moment, not now, not here. Not after everything he’s been through.

Louis laughs a little as he looks down at Harry, but it’s soft, and he’s smiling in a way that makes Harry’s heart hurt.

It's fine. Just a brief infatuation, Harry tells himself as Louis’ ocean eyes hold his own gaze with a warmth to rival that of the afternoon. Just for few weeks, that he can enjoy and then let go of when Louis leaves in whatever new destination he figures out. 

Just a brief infatuation. No harm in that.

 

*

 

The afternoon light in Bruges is the most special, Harry decides after days of observation. The most unique.

It’s something to do with summer and the thickness of the air, perhaps. The way the heat distorts everything so that it becomes hazy. The light is gold here, truly gold, and it warms everything it touches.

He’s setting up his camera to photograph the Stadhuis, the tripod is secure and he’s just thrown the blanket over his head, when he hears a throat clear behind him.

“You and that camera,” says Louis’ voice, muffled through the fabric that drapes Harry’s ears. “Have you checked the area for swans?”

“Very funny,” Harry replies, unmoving. Louis is hard to resist, but the light will only be perfect once. He continues to stare through his viewfinder waiting as the clouds move in hazy formations across the sky, changing the tones and shadows on the ground.

“Not to be demanding,” Louis continues after a prolonged period of silence, “but it’s very hard to talk to you with a cloth over your face.”

“Then I’m afraid you’ll have to be silent,” Harry replies cheerfully. “Time and tide await no man.”

“They what?” Louis asks, and Harry shrugs, though he’s not sure how the gesture translates when he’s bent over and has essentially a large black blanket covering half his body.

“The light,” Harry says, gesturing from under the blanket at the building before them. “I have to wait for the right light.”

Louis huffs a dramatic sigh, and suddenly Harry feels the blanket shift. Then Louis is under it with him, to Harry’s alarm. 

“What are you doing?” Harry murmurs, and it’s kind of faint and wheezy, so he really needs to pull himself together. He should not be this affected by someone just standing next to him.

“I’m helping you wait,” Louis replies, leaning against the viewfinder so he can just make out with one eye what Harry is looking at. “How about now?”

“No Louis,” Harry laughs, and Louis waits a few seconds before,

“Now?”

Harry bumps his hip against Louis’ with a giggle that comes out depressingly like the noise a maiden might make swooning over a knight. “You’re not doing it right.”

“I don’t understand waiting,” Louis just replies with a shrug. “If you want something, take it. Then and there.”

It’s a very Louis thing to say, Harry thinks. He seems to be rather made up of hurricanes and tsunamis.

“I can respect that in many instances,” Harry tells him slowly. “But with light, it has to come to you. You don’t own it or control it. You have to learn it, and see it for it is, and hope it returns the sentiment.”

“More poetry,” Louis laughs, and he goes to say something else, but Harry shushes him with a hiss and pushes him off the viewfinder. 

There it is, his golden moment, just as the sun must have burst from behind a cloud if the change is anything to go by. The gothic facade of the town hall lights up suddenly, the white of the stone shimmering in the afternoon, setting off the shadows of the arched mason work. It almost seems to glow, and with it’s vast arcing windows of dark glass set against the illuminated stone, the building almost has life to it. 

Harry takes a deep breath, and clicks, and the shutter goes off with a flash and a boom, his own localised thunderstorm.

“There,” Harry lets out in a rush of nervous tension released, pulling himself out from under the blanket and holding it up to that Louis can extricate himself as well.

“Worth the wait?” Louis asks curiously, eyebrows raised as though he had understood nothing of what had just happened.

“Always,” Harry replies sincerely. “Now how do you feel about some gelato?"

Louis smirks. "You going to photograph that too?" he says mockingly, and Harry rolls his eyes.

"Thought I might try eating it," he returns, and Louis raises his eyebrows as though considering this a new and novel approach.

"Fascinating concept," he murmurs, and Harry pokes his tongue out at him.

“Won’t be a minute,” Harry says, and gestures to the Stadhuis. “You should look inside, I think you’ll appreciate it.”

“Yeah?” Louis asks curiously, and Harry nods.

“No council sitting right now. Meet you in there!”

Louis follows Harry’s advice, disappearing into the building. Harry knows he’ll love it, after what he'd said about architecture earlier that week. Like many of the significant landmarks in Bruges, it’s a fairytale masterpiece. And it’s not complete yet either; Zayn had taken Harry to see it on his first day in town, talking in his quiet, almost reverent mumble about how the council had commissioned murals to be put in over the next few years, depicting events in Bruges history.

It takes Harry several minutes to pack his camera down, placing the plates into special bags to keep them safe until he can develop them. It won’t be until he is back at the factory in Lyon with his lab that he can see if they’ve come out the way he intended. He has faith though. The magic of Bruges light wants to be seen, he thinks.

When he’s finally able to go and look for Louis, he isn’t surprised to find him sitting in one of the concert chairs in the Gothic Hall.

Harry pauses behind him, watching the way Louis is staring upwards, marvelling at the colour and beauty that sweeps above them. The vaulted ceilings glimmer with gold plating and splashes of colourful patterns.

“Polychrome,” Harry says, announcing his presence as he halts beside Louis’ chair. “Amazing, right?”

“Incredible,” Louis agrees, and there’s something a little sombre to his expression as he meets Harry eyes. “It reminds me of…” 

He shakes his head, trailing off, as though stopping himself from whatever had been perched on the tip of his tongue. Harry wonders if it was something from his old life. It’s a pattern he’s noticed with Louis; he seems vibrant, sharp-edged and full of life, and yet this natural identity seems to be warring with the sadness inside him. 

It’s not that Harry is surprised by it, not after Louis has lost what he had. But even so, it seems unnatural, wrong even, for someone like Louis to be dragged down by such melancholy. Harry imagines that in prior days, Louis must have been full of fire through good times and bad. It must have flickered and danced inside him, growing brighter in the face of happiness and adversity alike, and it hurts Harry to see that fire reduced to flickering embers.

“Gelato, did you say?” Louis mutters, pushing himself up with a stretch, and when Harry feels his gaze slipping to where Louis’ white shirt is riding up his flat stomach, he forces himself to look away.

They leave the Stadhuis and meander through the smaller of the town squares, the Burg. It's a dreamlike confection of gothic architecture and medieval flourishes, and Harry relishes the sense of history and memory that seems to stain every single brick and cobblestone.

“There used to be a castle here, can you imagine?” Harry murmurs dreamily as they wander, and Louis laughs.

“Made of chocolate?” he asks dryly, and Harry rolls his eyes.

“Made of your mother,” Harry retorts, and Louis snorts, fixing Harry with a skeptical look.

“Sorry, how would that work?”

“It…just would,” Harry replies weakly, having not quite thought this through, and Louis shakes his head.

“Improve your game, Styles,” he grins, and speeds up as the gelato place comes in sight. “Now hurry up!”

Harry blinks as Louis rushes onwards, barrelling towards the little stall. The gloom of before vanished as soon as it had come, though Harry doesn’t know whether it has truly departed for the time being, or whether Louis has just pushed it down. 

Nonetheless, when he watches Louis now he sees an echo of that fire again, rising up from where it had lain low. And he thinks that if anyone has the temperament to survive, even thrive in adversity, it must be Louis.

 

*

 

It’s startlingly easy to lose time in Bruges. The sun, the river, the shadows of trees as the sun sets on dusky summer evenings. 

Days pass in comfortable rhythms. In the mornings, Harry breakfasts with the boys in various configurations determined by who is awake (Louis and Zayn are the latest risers, but seem to recover fastest from the bigger evenings, so it balances out on average). The following hours are filled with exactly what Harry had come to Bruges to do - nothing in particular. Sometimes alone, sometimes with company, he takes every minute as it comes, maps out his days only as they happen. 

The best of them are when he’s joined by Louis, who despite the pain he carries inside him, is incredibly game for whatever comes to mind. If anything, it seems Louis relishes the opportunity to lose himself in some new experience, distract his still reeling mind from the new reality he has to somehow begin to shape his life around. With Louis, Harry finds himself swinging into a river or taking a tour of the local beer factory or exploring the catacombs of an ancient church with barely a moment’s notice, and it’s wonderful.

It’s been ten days, Harry realises one evening as he stares at himself in the mirror of his bedroom and fixes shirt cuffs. Just over a week of Bruges, and of Louis. And he’s at a loss as to what to do with it.

A knock at the door jolts him from his reverie, and when he glances up Zayn is lounging against the door frame, looking elegant and dashing in equal measure. His brown eyes are watching Harry filled with thought that Harry couldn’t even begin to guess at, and when Harry cocks his head to one side questioningly, Zayn just shrugs.

"Why do you look so good," Harry whines, fiddling with his cuffs. "Why do I have to wear cuff links. And a vest."

"You don't actually have to do that," Zayn replies stoically, fixing a strand of his hair. "We're going to a party, not meeting the king."

"Meeting the king would be worth the effort," Harry grumbles, finally sliding the last wretched button into place. "It's too- I feel too-" He frowns at his sleeves. They're tight, and boring. He nimbly releases the cufflinks. Screw them, he's going to roll his sleeves up. And maybe leave the vest unbuttoned. 

"You spend your days in a lab coat and rubber boots and strangely unfitted shirts," Zayn sighs. "You should be grateful to have the excuse to put on something nice."

"I put on plenty of nice things. Cufflinks are not nice things," Harry retorts sulkily. There's some weird kind of ruffle on the front of his shirt. He doesn't remember that being in the designs when he had ordered it from Paris with his Christmas money from his father. He thinks for a moment, then with a deft wrist movement tears it off in one go. The top of the shirt falls open slackly, which pleases him.

Ignoring Zayn's appalled gaze, he ties the orphaned strip of fabric around his bared wrist. It looks quite good. Maybe he should get a longer version for his hair.

"You look like a gypsy vagabond," Zayn utters disparagingly. Harry grins.

"This crowd is full of painters and poets. I should fit right in."

"Hopeless," is Zayn's response, but his lips quirk in a smile as he rolls his eyes. "Come on, wildling."

The night air is warm, it wraps it's welcoming arms around the two of them as they step into the street. The cobbled lane seems to shine under the lamps, and the breeze is jasmine scented, carrying with it the call of insects. It's a perfect summer evening, and as they pass over the bridge Harry has to stop and lean over the railing, following the trail of moonlight on the still water below.

"I can see why you'd want to move here," Harry murmurs, as Zayn comes up beside him. Zayn had mentioned it so many times, packing in his studio in Lyon and setting up permanently in Bruges. "Endless inspiration."

Zayn nods, and they stand a moment in the quiet night together. Harry knows he probably never will. Not while Liam is in Lyon, anyway.

“Come on, the others will be waiting,” Zayn replies.

It’s the night of the annual midsummer party that Ed Sheeran throws every year, without fail. Harry’s never had the chance to attend, but Ed’s an old family friend of his, and he’s heard stories. 

The boys are waiting at the Kruispoort Gate.

"Jesus Zayn," Niall mutters, rolling his eyes from where he's leaning against the base of one of the ancient turrets. His burgundy three piece suit and tails stands out beside Liam's own more reserved brown suit and top hat attire.

It's Louis that really catches Harry's eye though, dressed in greys and whites that almost look silver in the moonlight, a light coat sweeping to his knees.

And Harry notices that Louis is watching him too, with something unreserved and unseen. It’s raw, and unselfconscious, and hinting at a kind of longing that Harry struggles to place the origin of. Because it’s not the same look Louis gets when he talks about home, not that kind of yearning. It’s new, and if Harry didn’t know any better, he’d say it was directed at him.

But that couldn’t possibly be right. Louis has far too much to think about, far too many emotions to process, a whole life to rebuild. There’s no way it would even cross his mind to think of Harry like-

Well, like the way he seems to be watching him now. Except it's dark, and in the lamp lights Louis' expression shifts so easily. Harry blinks, and it's gone, back to his regular kind of self-effacing smile.

They leave the walled part of the city as a group, strolling down the wider road of Dampoortstraat under rows of linden trees until they turn onto the right street.

The Sheeran House is, despite the name, a manor without a doubt. It sits at the end of a crescent driveway filled in with gleaming quartz gravel and studded with delicate flowering topiary. It must be three stories, and has it’s own rolling grounds, which brings a smile to Harry’s face. Inside the main Bruges citadel, the houses are very much piled all together, narrower structures of two or three or four floors that topple upwards and almost seem to tilt out over the many canals. This place is stately, sprawling by comparison, square and confident in the figure it carves in the Belgian night.

Liam produces the invite from his coat pocket, having been the only one sensible enough to be entrusted with it, and they move easily past the footmen and into the main gallery.

Inside, it’s immediately and startlingly crowded. Bruges is a fairly relaxed place, and Harry has wound himself down into nights of quiet contemplation, wine amongst friends or small groups of of artists and intellectuals eating cheese and yelling at each other about Frank Wedekind, or just dangling feet over Liam’s balcony or sprawling in the grass outside Zayn’s apartment for hours on end. 

But it seems that the population of the city had pent up all their energy and decided that this was where it should be expended. The crowed was awash with lavish outfits and ridiculous hair styles, and intermingled with them were waiters in tunics bearing sparkling drinks on trays. Heady music filled the air, the accompanying laughter and dancing spilling through room after room. 

"This place is enormous," Louis murmurs next to Harry, and instinctively Harry presses slightly closer to him. He thinks perhaps he detected the faintest note of concern in Louis' voice, and wonders if Louis might not be in the right state of mind for this many people, this much noise.

But Louis' face breaks into a grin that Harry would swear is sincere, and ducks towards a table laden with chocolates, pulling Harry with him.

“Sorry!” Harry gasps out as he bounces off a girl with blonde hair piled in ringlets on his head. “Louis, must you manhandle me so?”

“I must,” Louis confirms gravely, snatching up a china plate upon which he begins to pile miniature desserts. “I’m sorry Harry, it is the sacrifice you must make if you are to be my partner in crime.”

“I don’t remember signing that agreement,” Harry replies thoughtfully, but Louis shoves a chocolate in his mouth as he opens it to continue. Harry wheezes as speckles of it hit the back of his throat, and Louis laughs with delight.

“Sorry, that was a little more violent than I intended,” he admits, and Harry swallows roughly.

“Then why are you laughing?” he mutters weakly, but he can’t help but return Louis’ bright eyed smiled. Partners in crime. He likes that.

“Harry Styles!” A voice says behind them, and when Harry turns he finds a messy shock of red-hair in a well-tailored yet eccentrically green tartan suit grinning at him.

“Ed!” Harry cheers, clapping his old friend on the back. “Ed, meet Louis Tomlinson.”

Louis sticks his hand out to shake, and Ed reciprocates.

“And what do you do when you’re not assaulting my friends with confectionary?” Ed asks, his gentle tone at odds with the humour in his eyes.

“Oh you know, hero of the Irish Revolution mostly,” Louis declares gamely, and Harry breathes in so fast he nearly chokes. In the time they’d spent together, he’d never once heard Louis joke about his exile. No, there had been the occasional bitter snark, but never cheerfully like this.

“Naturally,” Ed concedes, and Harry isn’t sure if he knows much of Louis or not. Gossip has a funny way of travelling around Bruges, never quite the same in any given case. “Giving this one trouble I hope?” he adds, gesturing at Harry, and Louis nods.

“I make his life hell day and night. It’s an art form, and he’s been a wonderful subject.”

“Great,” Ed nods, unaffected by Louis’ bouts of snark and whimsy as though this was simple shop talk. Ed always did have a way of taking things in his stride. “Well, make yourself at home. Try not to start any civil wars. And don’t feed the cat, he’s getting a pot belly.”

Ed claps them on the shoulder and disappears into the crowd again, and Louis grins after him.

“I like that guy,” he says, and gestures for Harry to follow them back to the group.

"I feel a bit underdressed," Liam is murmuring when they rejoin, picking at his cravat. “Is that- Louis, did you clean out the dessert table?”

“I might have,” Louis says, offering around the plate of treats. He waggles his eyebrows at Harry, who can’t help but laugh. He’s in awe seeing Louis like this, practically glowing with energy and delight. The real Louis, bright and game, finally and properly unshackled.

Zayn is smiling at Liam, uninterested in the desserts Louis has brought.

"You look perfect," he says, and Liam raises his eyebrows, his gaze flickering over Zayn's overly romantic garb - he’s wearing a cape and still manages to look dashingly incredible rather than the total idiot the other boys probably would have appeared. "Come dance with me."

Without waiting for Liam's assent, Zayn pulls him through the thinnest part of the crowd and onto the floor, where a three piece string band are serenading the dancers with a waltz.

"Harold, Neil," Louis announces, and when Harry looks at him he realises with a start that Louis had somehow in the last ten seconds acquired several champagne glasses. Hopefully off a passing waiter, otherwise Louis might be a party warlock and Harry might need to reassess his world view.

Niall accepts his and without a word raises it to his lips, drinking deeply. _Irish people_ , Harry thinks wonderingly, his eyes trailing back to where Zayn and Liam are moving gracefully across the floor, Zayn clearly leading. 

Harry hadn't thought either of them either liked dancing, nor had the coordination, but they are as smooth and effortless together as though they were two clockwork pieces, fitting into their whole. It’s marvellous to see such synchronicity as they sweep amongst the other dancing couples.

Someone jostles into Harry, and he lurches forward, reaching out blindly to stop his acceleration. Louis grabs his wrist, then his shoulder, steadying him with an irritated look over Harry's shoulder.

"Watch it, would you?" Louis snaps protectively, but Harry shakes his head.

"It's crowded, Lou. It's fine." He turns to find a black-haired gentleman and his blonde friend apologising profusely, and Harry offers them a genuine shrug, and a smile.

"No harm done boys," he tells them, to their obvious relief. With a last apology, they vanish into the milling haze of people once more. Louis scowls after them, and Harry laughs.

"Honestly Lou, they didn't murder my cat."

"S'rude though," Louis mutters, "Isn't it Nialler?"

Harry expects Niall to chime in with something cheerfully dismissive, but as soon as he catches sight of Niall's pale demeanour, he realises Niall is barely listening. His eyes are darting in panicked, skewed patterns all around them, and when he realises that he is being stared at he shakes his head violently.

"I'm sorry boys, I can't be here."

His voice is quiet, urgent, a tone Harry has never heard from him before. He opens his mouth to question Niall further, but his friend has already turned and is making his way hastily through the crowd to the exit.

"I don't understand," Harry mutters in bewilderment, but Louis is tugging at his arm, pulling him out of stasis as they follow after Niall.

"He's claustrophobic," Louis explains hurriedly as they weave round the partygoers. "He's got it under control most of the time, but he's been under so much stress from everything that’s happened, I guess it just crept back up on him."

Harry feels his stomach lurch unpleasantly. He realises he's been a little fixated on Louis, on Louis's sadness and loss and how to make him smile again, such that he has overlooked Niall's own needs. Of course he understood that Niall was going through the same grieving process as Louis, but it just hadn't occurred to him to look as closely, watch as carefully. Niall was always the first to smile, the first to joke and laugh, he had covered it up so well.

Harry mentally slaps himself. Some friend he's been.

They burst outside, and find Niall slumped against one of the front pillars, breathing deeply with his eyes closed.

Louis moves swiftly towards him, and for a second Harry thinks he's going for an embrace. But at the last second, Louis drops to the ground so that he's sitting on the steps, settling with his back against Niall's calves.

"You breathing, Nialler?" Louis asks, and Niall nods tightly.

"Can't get rid of me yet," Niall replies, his voice a little thin, and Louis huffs a dramatic sigh.

"God damn. Knew I should have just left you back in Dublin. Let the English have you for their supper."

"You would know how the English treat their prisoners, wouldn't you, Manc."

"Manc!" Louis scoffed. "Manc, he says! You fucking wound me, potato peasant. You know I'm from Yorkshire."

"I know," Niall laughs, actually laughs, and his breathing seems to be coming more evenly now. Like having Louis’ voice to concentrate on has immediately brought him back from the brink. "Even worse, that."

"Shove it up your arse, please," Louis mutters, butting the back of his head against Niall's leg, and Niall ruffles Louis' hair.

As Harry watches them bicker, watches as Louis works his magic and the colour returns to Niall's face, he thinks of the connection the two of them have. They alone understand what the other has lost. Harry is an onlooker in this story, in the narrative of their lives.

And it's not that he feels jealous, because he knows Niall wouldn't look twice at another man, not in a thousand years. And frankly, he isn’t any closer to figuring out where Louis’ proclivities lie.

No, it's a different sensation, something a bit sad and heavy and, _foolish_ , that's it. He feels foolish for having thought that perhaps he could be something that Louis could count as a gain. Something that Louis could think of as... as what, worth the trouble he’s been through? The heartache? 

God, Harry really had not had his head screwed on properly. It is so clear in this moment, watching them. He'd been utterly foolish.

He remembers suddenly the conversation he’d had with Louis, about waiting for things. Louis had said he didn’t wait for what he wanted. He took it. And he’d made no move to do so with Harry. 

With a sigh that he pushes down, keeps quiet in his core, Harry comes to lean against the pillar with them. He can offer his friendship, he always has and always will. But he needs to keep his heart in check. 

"There you are lads!" Liam calls, and the three of them turn to find him and Zayn in the entryway. "You alright?"

"Fine now," Niall calls back, and he sounds strong to Harry's ears. "Just a bit too many people in there."

"It's thinner in the garden round the back," Zayn tells them. "Breathing room. Fresh air. And a very fancy fruit buffet."

"Fruit? This is Belgium. I demand chocolate. Or cheese. Chocolate covered cheese, I want that," Louis replies archly, but Zayn rolls his eyes, and looks questioningly at Niall. Niall nods with a smile, and offers his hand to Louis, pulling him up.

"Come on, bet you we can harass a waiter into creating choco-cheese for us. You coming Harry?"

Niall is watching him with bright eyes once more, and Louis turns, grabbing at Harry's sleeve once more and tugging.

"Onwards, Styles. Choco-cheese awaits," Louis cries, and Harry feels himself dragged forward by Louis until he's about to trip over his own feet trying to keep up.

"Ok! I'm coming!" Harry exclaims, laughing as the five of them fall into a muddled formation, and as Harry looks sideways as Louis, the way his eyes gleam in the light that spills from the windows as they crunch along the gravel path, he feels his heart twinge.

 _Don't_ , he thinks firmly, not for the first time, and not for the last.

 

*

 

The morning breaks on Harry slowly, as though unsure whether to wake him.

He yawns, and rolls heavily onto his side, arm stretching out into the expanse of his bed. Except, something seems wrong about that. He frowns sleepily against the pillow, trying to figure out what it is.

Hang on. Hadn’t he fallen asleep with a body next to his?

Harry blinks, trying to focus blearily, and yes, he’s definitely alone.

The memory of the prior evening slowly saunters back to him. Niall has gotten into the party a lot more once they relocated to the gardens. Between the five of them and the others they had met, there had been a not insignificant amount of dancing, eating, and drinking. He’d fallen asleep next to Niall, cuddled into his friend happily.

As Harry shifts himself upwards, his head throbs unpleasantly, and he grimaces. And there’s something else, something sharp that filters through his brain. Voices, he realises, raised and spiked and coming from the lounge.

He rolls himself upright and reaches for his robe, slipping it on before shuffling into the hall.

Zayn's door is closed, and Harry remembers Liam coming home with them, so he assumes they're sharing a bed as usual. He squints at the wooden barrier, wishing it would reveal their secrets to him. His curiosity about their relationship is reaching painful levels.

He doesn’t linger. The voices he’d heard are louder, clearer now, and it’s unmistakably Niall and Louis. The latter Harry realises must have slept on the couch.

“…at least _try,_ ” Niall is saying, and his voice is sharper than Harry has ever heard him sound.

“Niall, you know we can’t. You know,” Louis sighs, and his voice is missing the edge Harry would have expected. He seems exhausted more than anything, and not just from the previous night’s exertions.

“My brother’s a lawyer, if we just-” Niall begins, but Louis cuts him off with an exasperated,

“Niall! You have got to stop this, mate. It’s not healthy.”

“Healthy?” Niall exclaims, and Harry creeps forward a little so that he can see them. He knows he shouldn’t be eavesdropping, but he doesn’t know how to interrupt, and he can’t bring himself to walk away.

“There’s not a healthy way to be about this, Lou,” Niall replies with a little less force this time, and Harry can see that he’s pacing the floor, hands in the pockets of his creased dress slacks that he must have slept in. 

“There’s acceptance and denial,” Louis begins from where he’s seated at the little card table, and then stops, snorting. When Niall glances quizzically at him, he grins. “De-Niall.”

“Nice one,” Niall laughs, his agitation forgotten for a moment as he grins.

“I just think you’re going to drive yourself mad, Nialler,” Louis tells him, his voice a little softer, warm around the edges, and Niall grimaces. 

“I don’t want to admit that you’re right,” Niall scowls, and Louis shrugs.

“You never do.” He leans back in the chair. “But you will.”

“When did you get so much clarity about this? It’s our home,” Niall says wistfully, leaning on the back of one of the chairs as he watches Louis intently.

“And we did what we could. And now we have to… we have to make a new home, Niall,” Louis replies, and his voice sounds surprisingly free of doubt. Where he’s sitting in the light of the lounge windows, his face is illuminated by sunbeams, cheekbones cutting razor lines through golden skin. He seems suddenly younger to Harry, full of life, it sparks beneath his skin.

“I’m going to go for a walk,” Niall murmurs, and when Louis seems to hesitate, Niall winks at him. “I’m alright, Lou. Just need to think things through.”

“Sure Nialler,” Louis nods. “I’ll be here.”  


“I know,” Niall replies with an affectionate grin, reaching across the table to ruffle Louis’ hair. He’s gone from the room in a heartbeat.

Harry realises he could use this opportunity to slink back into bed. But he’s up, and his mind is ticking over what he’d heard. He wants to know if Niall really will be ok. He wants to know what Louis has meant by ‘we did what we could’. He wants to know why Louis is so adamant that they can't go back, can't even try to clear their names. He wants to know if Louis really believes what he’d just told Niall about starting again.

God, he is full of questions. But if he goes out now, Louis will know he was listening. Better to retreat to his room, gather his thoughts, and return when enough time has passed to avoid suspicion.

Except, as he turns to go, the floorboard creaks under his foot, and Louis looks round trying to find the source of the noise. So that kills that plan.

Harry swivels in his stride, tries to make the motion as natural as possible, and moves casually into the kitchen. He tries to feign a look of surprise when he sees Louis there, though he knows his acting skills are generally subpar.

"Louis?" Harry asks, and Louis turns and smiles at him, his teeth sunk into a slice of bread. Harry hadn’t noticed, but he has breakfast in front of him.

"Morning," he gets out around the food, but waits until he has swallowed to continue. "You're up early.”

"What about you?" Harry asks, and Louis shrugs.

"Sunlight coming in the windows, can't hide when you're sleeping on the couch." He shrugs, and Harry realises he has the newspaper too. 

"How's the world doing?" Harry asks, gesturing at the paper, and Louis sighs.

"The world is alright." His tone is a little flat all of a sudden, and Harry realises there must be something to do with the Irish unrest in there, something that perhaps had sparked the words between him and Niall. He’s about to ask, when Louis says suddenly, “Harry?”

“Yeah?" Harry replies uncertainly, and Louis fixes him with a look that is surprisingly unguarded.

“I’m really glad I met you,” he says in a startling moment of blunt honesty, though there’s the faintest hint of self-deprecation to his tone. As though he can never quite let go, never quite drop every guard he has. "I haven't been the easiest person to be around lately, but you befriended me anyway.”

There's a thousand things Harry wants to say to that, and nothing he actually can. He's not sure how to explain that he can so clearly see Louis, and not the way Louis must see himself. This newer, melancholy, blunted version is just a shadow, and the real thing is still there and just as clear and real as it must have always been.

But as these thoughts occur to Harry, so too do a handful of other less happy ones. That they haven't known each other long enough for Harry to say something like that. That he wants to do so much more than just befriend Louis. That he's completely out of his depth as to what to do with the two of then.

"You befriended me too," is what Harry finally goes with, such a non-answer he is almost disappointed in himself. But Louis lets out a little humming laugh, so that's something.

"You're easy to like Harry. You with your curls and your charm and your non sequiturs. I'd be crazy not to want that in my life.”

He says it so calmly, so casually, just lets it out like it takes no effort, smiles and easily flips to the next page of the newspaper. 

Like there's nothing more simple than that.

And Harry doesn't know if he should be feeling joy or heartbreak.

 

*

 

And the thing is, it’s really, really impossible to just shut off your heart.

The days continue to pass, spent among the cobblestone streets and canals in the warmth of the summer sun, and through it all Harry knows with uncomfortable certainty that he is failing to keep his feelings for Louis under control.

He knows it's the truth when Louis comes round to lend him a book because it had made him think of Harry, and when Louis does a perfect running commentary of Harry's swimming race with Niall in the canal, and when he shows Harry the sketches of magnificent bridges he's dreamt up that fill every corner of his moleskin notebook. He knows it's the truth when he listens to Louis and Liam talking quietly of their childhood sprawled in the grass, and when Louis makes Zayn draw Harry's caricature and then laughs about it for the rest of the day.

Niall is better with every passing day, happy to announce it over breakfast when Harry asks. He doesn't hide his heart away like Louis, and now that Harry knows what to be looking for, he is certain that Niall will be fine even if sometimes he goes a little quiet, breaks off a joke a little too quickly.

Louis is harder to read, but Harry thinks that maybe,  _maybe_ , Louis' metallic edges are slowly softening too. That he is slower to sadness, less likely to break off mid-sentence. That what he had said to Niall about moving forward was true, and he was trying. 

Harry can't be sure though. It's not as though Louis likes to talk about it. Most of the time.

It’s a late hour of a long day, and Harry is sprawled on his bed, a well thumbed copy of _Persuasion_  in his hands. His version of _On The Origin Of The Species_  lies abandoned on the floor; there's only so much science he can read before he needs a dose of Wentworth.

A throat clears to his immediate left, and his heart leaps into his throat with fright as he starts and swivels.

His bed is a foot from the window, and in the narrow gap dangles a leg. It takes Harry a second to realise that he’s not looking at a severed limb straight out of a Mary Shelley novel, but in fact something that belongs to the boy sitting on the window sill.

“Louis!” Harry breathes with relief, still clutching his book to his chest. “You scared me!”

“Is that because you didn’t want to be caught reading Austen?” Louis snickers, eyebrows raised as he stares at Harry’s book. There’s a second where Harry could be embarrassed, he could be, but that’s just ridiculous.

“Jane Austen is the greatest satirist of her generation,” Harry declares, “And if you can’t handle that then I will just have to push you back out the window.”

“Ok Harry,” Louis says, exaggerating the syllables for effect, “You can pretend you read it for the satire and not the romance. I won’t tell.”

Harry frowns petulantly, stroking the cover of the book as he sets it on the bedside table. “It’s ok baby, don’t listen to him. He’s a heathen swine.”

The bark of laughter this startles out of Louis is worth the mockery of his favourite author, Harry thinks.

“What brings you to my window then?” Harry asks, rolling onto his side properly so he can look up at Louis with his head pillowed on his arm. Louis’ expression falters a little, unsure of itself.

“Not really anything in particular,” Louis admits, scratching his nose. “I was just walking. Thinking. Wanted to say things. To you specifically I mean, not just, in general. I’m perfectly capable of talking to myself.”

It’s a bit of a word salad, what comes out, and Harry knows it must be the product of nerves. Which should be alarming, or enticing, or anything other than what he finds it to be, which is endearingly sweet. The great Louis Tomlinson, accidental Irish revolutionary and criminal, full of sass and wit, sitting nervous on Harry’s windowsill; it's hard not to be charmed.

“Ok,” is all Harry says, because he doesn’t want to mock Louis, not when he’s so jittery. It could spook him, and Harry doesn’t want that. He’s pleased that Louis chose his window, of all places, to wind up.

“I’m going to be fine,” Louis says without preamble, blue eyes alighting on Harry with an intensity that wasn’t there a few seconds ago. “Do you believe me?”

“I believe you,” Harry confirms, answering honestly out of surprise more than anything. He’s not really sure where Louis’ head is at, not now and not on any given day, but if he knows one thing it’s that Louis will be fine. Louis is made of sunlight and steel and lightning as far as Harry is concerned.

“I’m grateful for you, you know,” Louis says suddenly, but when Harry glances at him he’s looking at his hands, fingers laced tightly. “I’m grateful you don’t…you’re not…"

He sighs, and Harry lets him order his thoughts as the night air curls in through open window.

“The others are worried about me and Niall,” Louis finally amends. “I mean, of course they are. It’s annoying though. They treat me weirdly. But you- “

“I’m worried too Louis,” Harry admits hastily, not wanting Louis to waste difficult words on someone undeserving. “I am.”

“Yeah but,” Louis replies, ducking his head a little so his expression is hard to see. “Maybe it’s because you didn’t know me before, I don’t know. But you’re open with me I think. It’s the impression I get, that you’re not hiding bits of yourself from poor delicate Louis.” He snorts, finally looking up, and Harry realises he’s actually bordering on amused. “You know yesterday I broke a glass at Liam’s, and he said not to worry about it? It’s so small, but a year ago he would have, I don’t know, kicked me in the shin or something.”

Harry laughs. Liam is sweet and kind and responsible, but when the mood takes him he will act like an unruly three year old. 

“Ok,” Harry says, with a nod. “Well I’ll remember to cause you bodily harm next time you fuck up.”

Louis grins at him, and with the moonlight at his back and the soft calls of night birds surrounding them, it’s as though some ethereal creature had chosen to perch itself on Harry’s windowsill. A wight, or will-o-the-wisp perhaps.

“Can I tell you something you can’t tell other boys?” Louis asks quietly, his expression softening a little, and Harry nods. His heartbeat picks up ever so slightly, though he couldn’t say why.

“We were there,” Louis murmurs, so quietly Harry has to strain to hear, so it takes him a few seconds to realise what Louis means. He tries to school the surprise from his expression, but he can tell it doesn’t work.

Louis nods when he sees that Harry has understood. “Niall was one of the protesters. He invited me, but I had an exam. I actually was studying in the library, but word spread pretty quickly that it was getting big, so I went to find Niall. I was a little worried, but also kind of excited you know? Like maybe we could be in the middle of something big.” He laughs bitterly, no mirth in his expression at all. “It went pear-shaped after I got there. This kid next to me threw a stone, hit a policeman on the temple. He went down like an anchor.” Louis shudders at the memory.

“But you weren’t responsible for that,” Harry finds himself saying, but Louis shakes his head.

“I was there. My body was one of the numbers. And Niall was right on the frontline, he got punched, nearly knocked out. I had to carry him out of the fray.” He leans his head back against the window jamb, eyes closed. “And I’m a coward, because I lied to Liam and Zayn and my family.”

“I don’t understand why you’d lie about that,” Harry asks curiously, keeping his voice soft and free of accusation. “It doesn’t make a difference to me.”

Louis’ head shifts sideways a little, so he can watch Harry as he stays silent for a few moments. Then he shrugs. “I guess, because I don’t think they’d believe that I was there because I cared, you know? I’m not Irish, and I’m not exactly the calm and quiet type. I feel like they’d just put it down to, ‘oh that Louis, jumping into situations where he doesn’t belong and fucking everything up.’ Like they’d think I deserved to lose it all, because I was being reckless and young and joining in on whatever took my fancy.” 

His fingers are clenched against his trousers, and in the starlight Harry can see that they’ve gone white from how he’s gripping them together.

Harry rolls out of bed so that’s sitting on the edge, and reaches for Louis’ hands, pries the fingers apart. Louis looks at him in surprise, but Harry just lifts a shoulder, and interlaces their fingers.

“You’re hurting yourself,” Harry says by way of explanation, as Louis stares at where their hands are interlocking.

A moment of silence passes between them as Louis just looks at their hands, his brow a little furrowed, like he was expecting anything but this.

“Harry Styles,” he murmurs, his eyes flicking up and over Harry’s face, as if seeing him for the first time all over again. “How did you end up in my life?"

“Swans, mostly,” Harry replies quietly, and Louis’ face shatters into a smile, his eyes crinkled at the edges and overly fond, as though he’d known Harry for years, had seen inside and outside of him, and loved him for everything he saw.

And for a second, Harry wants to lean in, wants to capture his lips, wants to throw caution to the wind and say fuck it all. Louis doesn't want to be treated like a war victim, he’d said. So why can't Harry have him? Have this? Why can't Harry just pull him from that window sill and run his hands all over Louis’ body, claim every inch of it with fingers and lips and skin on skin, make them both gasp with it, crazy for it, just let go let go let go-

The chime of the hallway clock ripples through the house, and the two of them pause to listen as it counts off twelve bells. Louis sighs, his gaze dropping from Harry’s own and travelling towards the clock on the wall that ticks far too loudly in the quiet night. 

The spell breaks, and Harry blinks, his mind remembering itself.

It's like a sinking weight in Harry’s stomach, the sudden shock of everything he’d heard hitting home like a thunderstorm. Because if Louis and Niall had really been at the protest, had really been part of it, then it hadn’t been an error, a case of mistaken guilt, that had gotten them expelled from the United Kingdom. Which meant that any chance of redemption, any chance of clearing their names, was gone.

Harry had barely thought about it, not explicitly anyway, but it had still been there. This shiny golden possibility on the horizon that maybe somehow it would all be smoothed over. 

That hope is completely vanished now. No wonder Louis had to tell someone, Harry thinks. It must have haunted him for every step he’s taken away from home.

“I should go,” Louis murmurs. “Thanks, Harry. For, you know.” 

When Harry nods quietly, Louis pulls his fingers gently from Harry’s own. He seems almost reluctant to let go, but then he slips from the windowsill, vanishes in the night.

Harry lets himself fall back on the bed gracelessly, letting go of a deep rush of breath as the sensation of Louis' fingers against his own lingers.

Treating Louis like a person rather than a victim is one thing. 

Forgetting that his life is currently an earthquake, well that’s another.

He listens for the soft footfalls of Louis hitting the grass, beginning to tread his way back to the street. But against the evening quiet, Harry hears something else too. A hitch of breath, something out of normal rhythm, something unnatural.

He sits bolt upright, shuffles across the bed to the window and peers into the gloom, and locates a solitary figure standing on the other side of the street. Louis has his back to Harry's window, leaning against the brickwork of a wall as he peers into the canal, and his whole body seems to be shaking.

As Harry stares, it's as though Louis can feel that he's being watched. When he turns back towards the apartment, moonlight catches ever so slightly on his tear-stained cheeks.

Harry moves without thought, slipping out the window as though he has become a functioning machine, intent on one purpose alone. His feet hit the ground with a jarring force, but he doesn't stumble, just presses through it until he's covered the distance between him and Louis. It's only three strides til he's at the garden gate, four to cross the road, one more to pull Louis towards him, and then Louis is falling into his embrace like it's his last breath of air, sobbing into Harry's shoulder.

Harry doesn't say a thing, knows he doesn't need to. He just curls around Louis, wraps him in his arms and presses his cheek to Louis' temple. Because maybe, if he can hold him tightly enough, stay there long enough, maybe he can be some kind of solid anchor in Louis' spinning, spinning world.

 

*

They don't speak of it again, of that night.

Not when Louis disentangles himself from Harry's embrace with a shuddering sigh, and departs wordlessly into the evening dim.

Not when they meet, along with Niall and Liam, for breakfast the next morning - though there are a couple of misplaced glances that throw Harry's mind and heartbeat into chaos.

Not even when it's just the two of them over the next couple of days. When they watch a string quartet play outside the Onze-Lieve-Vrouwekerk and Louis starts swaying beside him, bumping his hip into Harry's; when they rent some fishing poles and try their luck in the Baron Ruzettepark. It's never mentioned, not once, and Harry doesn't have the courage to bring it up. To ask Louis how he is. He just continues along, telling himself that it's fine. Louis is fine. They are  _fine_.

At least there are plenty of distractions. The novelty of Bruges never quite wears off, not even after more than a fortnight.

One of Harry’s favourite places to dine in Bruges is still the square under the Belfry. He insists they go back to it again and again, despite the protests of Zayn and Liam. 

“It’s not where the locals go, Harry,” Liam sighs, eyeing off the group of young men no doubt on a Grand Tour, the look of a riot about them. He has his arm slung casually around Zayn's waist, and they're walking together in unnatural synchronicity.

“I’m not a local. None of us are,” Harry just replies, unwavering, and marches the group into his preferred restaurant, greeting now familiar waiters in his broken Dutch.

“Kriek lambic voor mijn vrienden, dank u wel!”

“Alstublieft,” the young waiter Harry is fairly certain is called Erik replies with a smile. “Uw Nederlands is het verbeteren.”

“Je maakt een grape,” Harry laughs, and Erik winks at him as they’re seated at their usual table. Harry loves that they have a usual table.

When he looks around, the other four boys are staring at him in amusement. Well three of them in amusement. Louis looks a touch dangerous, oddly enough. He’s gripping a fork rather tightly.

“What?” Harry asks, bewildered, and Zayn just shakes his head.

“Charming all the locals, are you now?” he grins.

“I don’t know what you mean,” Harry frowns, and Zayn rolls his eyes.

“Mate,” Niall puts in, “I don’t understand a word you just said, but that was some class act romancing you just did.”

“Romancing?” Harry sputters, feeling a little like a deer in a hunter’s sights. “I wasn’t- he didn’t- I’m not romancing anyone!”

“You know it’s ok, don’t you?” Liam says calmly, a little warmly, from his end of the table. “No one really cares in Bruges, and we live in France most of the time for God’s sake. It’s not 1832 any more…”

Harry stifles a choking noise. He wants to slither under the table.

“I know that,” he says weakly, desperately not looking at Louis. From the corner of his eye though, he can see that Louis is pushing the fork prongs down into the table. Probably from the awkwardness of it all. Harry feels that deeply. “I just, I’m not interested in the waiter.”

“Got a problem with the working class do you?” Niall snarks back, and when Harry turns to stare at him at a complete loss, Niall bursts into laughter.

“Wow, Harry, calm down,” Niall giggles, reaching out to bop Harry on the forehead.

And Harry doesn’t want to admit that he’s panicking, but he is, because if Louis thinks he’s interested in Erik then, well, that’s just not something that Harry wants. Even if he doesn’t have a chance with Louis. He just. He just can’t have this.

“Blondes have never been my type, sorry Nialler,” Harry finally manages to say without nervously burbling, and when the others laugh appreciatively, he even dares to finally look at Louis. Louis is watching him impassively, his expression unreadable, and Harry feels a surge of courage somewhere from within him. Probably the result of sheer desperation, but who’s to know. He throws Louis a wink, and the milliseconds pass like hours as his heart tries to shatter his ribcage, and then Louis’ expression breaks into a smile.

“You are _such_ a piece of work, Styles,” Louis groans, rolling his eyes, and Harry beams.

Dinner with five people means it’s often impossible to keep track of any given conversation. Things start as communal, but thoughts fragment and asides are shared, and suddenly there are several streams going on.

Harry has been discussing the opera with Zayn over some opera cake for dessert, when Liam catches Zayn’s attention, and Harry is left to turn to find Louis sitting silently, staring out of the restaurant into the square.

Harry follows his eyeline, and notices for the first time a carousel perched a little way away. It had been unnoticeable in the daylight when they’d arrived, but now the sun had set, the lanterns that swung from the eves of the thing had been lit. They were made with stained glass, so as the carousel twirled slowly myriad colours lit the horses and splayed upon the ground.

“What are you thinking?” Harry asks, and Louis almost visibly startles. His eyes drag slowly off the carousel, and make their way up to Harry’s face. He blinks, and it’s as though he’s coming back to himself from a great distance. 

For a moment, Harry thinks Louis isn't going to answer. That they're going to continue in this strange, slightly stilted cycle of pretending like everything had healed itself over. But then-

“The carousel,” Louis answers slowly, gesturing with the slightest jerk of his head as though Harry might have missed it. “There was one on the riverbanks in Doncaster, near St. George’s Bridge. When I was a child, before we moved. It looked just like this one, except it was blue instead of red. I used to take my sisters…”

Louis trails off, and Harry thinks his eyes might be slightly over bright, a hint of glassy sheen to them, but then he blinks and it’s gone. Louis’ gaze drops to the glass of cherry beer in front of him.

“I'm sorry. About that night. I just... sometimes I think I have a grasp on this new reality. And then some days I wake up and I just feel like I'm still dreaming. Like I'll blink and be back in Dublin.” He sighs. "Sorry. God, I hate feeling like this."

 _Don't be sorry, god, please don't be sorry_ , Harry thinks. He knows saying the words would mean nothing to Louis though, so he leaves them be.

“Maybe one day you'll go back,” Harry said instead, but Louis shakes his head.

“You know that’s not true now, Harry. You know.”

HIs voice is soft, and he looks younger than Harry has ever noticed before. The lines of his face seem less focused in the candlelight, and Harry feels like there is a space between them that he doesn’t know how to cross. The silence that now has captured their conversation is stepped on by the voices around them, by the other boys who laugh and joke with each other. Harry feels held in place by uncertainty, feels powerless, feels-

“I can start again, huh?” Louis asks suddenly, glancing up at Harry.

“I’m sorry?” Harry replies, startled, and Louis smiles softly.

“What you said the other day, right after we met, it keeps going round my head. Starting over, you know?”

Harry feels his chest constrict a little at the thought of Louis holding onto something like that.

“I guess you could think of it as a gift,” he says sincerely, catching Louis’ gaze with his own and feeling as though time has slowed to a crawl around him. Louis isn't in jail, he's not dying. He's free.

And then a new sound floats above the noise, something at odds with the harsh clatter of glasses and plates and the shouts of laughter of the people around them. It wheezes into life, rich and soaring, like a soundscape of coloured glass. Louis glances up, wipes the fringe from his eyes and follows Harry’s gaze towards where the carousel has begun to play.

The smile creeps onto Louis’ face slowly, billows into his eyes, and Harry knows exactly what he needs. He pushes his chair back, the scrape of legs on cobblestone drawing Louis’ attention, and Harry extends his hand.

“Shall we?” 

Louis hesitates, his face drawing ever so slightly for just a moment, and then he grins. When his hand slips into Harry’s, Louis’ slender fingers threading between his own, Harry leads him from the table with a laugh.

“Oi, lads!” Liam calls after them, but they’re running across the square, hands still linked as Harry pulls ahead.

“Two tickets please!” he declares to the operator, a little breathless, and Louis just skips right past him, leaping onto the moving platform.

“Sir-” the operator begins, but Harry reaches up and deposits more money than he really needed to in the dip in the fellow’s hat. Then he vaults past, hauling himself up by the pole of a passing wooden sleigh, and Louis waves at him from a few horses down, atop a bare-backed brilliant white unicorn. Harry makes his way over, slinging himself over the side of the vibrant blue horse with a saddle and bridle opposite.

"Into the abyss!” Louis declares, punching the air, and Harry giggles as he pulls himself up by the pole of his own wooden steed, so that he’s standing on the back of it.

“I’m flying!” Harry laughs, and Louis shakes his head as the song ends and a new one starts up, a little bit slower, more melancholic.

“You’re ridiculous, Harry, truly- “ Louis freezes, listening, his head cocked to one side. Something nostalgic crosses his features, and his gaze falls on Harry, twisted into something wistful.

“This is an Irish folk song, my mother sings it,” Louis explains, and for a moment Harry thinks this is it, he’s lost his chance of keeping Louis’ smile. But then it’s back, it lights up Louis face as he pulls himself up too, joining Harry standing. He stretches out his arms, letting go of the pole, and begins to sing at the top of his lungs.

" _Of all the money e'er I had,_

_I spent it in good company._

_And all the harm I've ever done,_

_Alas it was to none but me._

_And all I've done for want of wit,_

_To memory now I can't recall._

_So fill to me the parting glass,_

_Good night and joy be with you all…_ ”

The words are lilting and a little sad, at odds with the jaunty flair of the carousel music. But Louis has a voice like silver-pink clouds over summer mornings, and he tilts his head back upon finishing, laughing.

“Of all the places,” Louis murmurs, leaning back from the pole as he holds tight, his body hanging out into air. Harry thinks Louis might have closed his eyes too, for a few seconds, just feeling the pull of gravity as the slow rotation of the carousel takes them round.

 _Of all the places_ , Harry thinks too as he watches Louis, feeling as light as a leaf on the breeze as he watches this vision before him.

It’s in the way Louis tilts his head back when he laughs, and the way the sunlight seems to melt into his golden skin that Harry wants to trail his fingers over until he knows it’s every inch. It’s in those glimpses of deep emotion that shadow Louis’ expressions, that show the truth behind Louis’ words even as he jokes or mocks or rolls his eyes. It’s the sincerity Louis seems to feel, but is hesitant to show. The love he has, for his friends and family and old life. The determination that just grows, day by day, to see himself through this difficult time.  All the incredible things that Louis tries to hide under humour and bravado, but to Harry seems to project out into the world anyway, an unstoppable burst of light and colour. 

Louis is summer personified.

When Louis pulls himself back in and slips down the side of the horse so that he’s sitting again, he finds Harry’s eyes. “Funny old world.”

He’s a little over bright, Louis is. Like a candle flame maybe, flickering in a light breeze, one moment climbing high and the next threatening to go out. 

“It is,” Harry agrees, leaning his temple against the pole of his horse and watching as Louis hums along with the music, looping the fake reigns in his wrists and pretending to urge the horse onwards. 

Louis glances back over his shoulder as the carousel spins, catches Harry’s eyes, and smiles with pure delight. The joy seems to light up his whole body, electrify him against the swirl of light and colour. And Harry thinks that maybe someone this beautiful, this luminous, shouldn’t ever be allowed to be sad.

 

*

 

When Louis drops by one Thursday evening and announces they should find the swan, it takes Harry several moments to realise he is serious.

Which doesn’t at all impede on his agreeing, and vaulting out the door into the evening with his friend. He just does it with a determined aura of scepticism. 

“It’s a swan, Louis,” Harry tells him thoughtfully as they meander along the canal bank near Liam’s place. Their pace is slow, because Louis’ leg injury has been playing up as the summer heat had taken a turn for the worse. He’s almost limping as they go, but when Harry had offered to find him a walking stick in town the day before, he’d laughed it off. “There’s about three hundred swans in this place.”

“This one has a specific look to it though,” Louis replies with certainty. “A look of pure evil.”

Harry snorts. “You’re ridiculous.”

“If anything is ridiculous, this swan is ridiculous, Harold,” Louis declares, smirking at Harry as though it’s the comeback of the century. “I demand retribution.”

“You demand? I was the subject of her fury, Louis. And I’ve made my peace with it.”

“Then why are you here with me, huh?” Louis laughs, prodding Harry in the ribs, and Harry rolls his eyes.

“Couldn’t possibly be because I like your company, could it?” Harry replies fondly, and Louis raises his eyebrows a little at him, and quickly looks away. Like he’s squirrelling away any real reaction he might have had to that omission.

There’s a brief interlude of quiet between them as they continue to walk, Louis’ eyes fixed on the water below them. Harry doesn’t mind so much. Between them, it never really feels uncomfortable. The twilight is filled with the chirp of insects, and Harry tilts his head back, relishing the way the air smells like jasmine. 

“So where are you going back to, after this?” Louis finally asks, breaking the silence. He’s still not looking at Harry, but Harry decides it probably means nothing.

“Back to the factory, outside Lyon. I’ve got a few projects I’ve been thinking about.” He rolls his shoulders back, and locks his fingers together behind his neck, looking up at the blue blue sky. “Part of me is itching to get on with my work. Another part could stay here forever though.”

“I know what you mean,” Louis murmurs, and Harry nods, though he knows Louis won’t see it. He decides to chance the question that’s pressing at his lips.

“Have you any idea what you’re going to do next?” Harry asks, and Louis lets out a long, low hum. For a few seconds that’s all he gives Harry, and the silence rolls back in between them. And then, when Harry thinks perhaps he should change the subject, he hears a quiet,

“Lyon.”

Harry’s heart stutters a little, and his hands drop to his sides as he turns in surprise on Louis.

“Lyon?” he asks, his feet halting in their stride, and Louis moves almost reactively so that he’s facing Harry. And his expression, well. Harry had expected doubt, or pain, or anything other than - delight. Louis is grinning, nods as he begins to walk backwards, forcing Harry to trot after him.

“Lyon. Thought I might enrol with Liam, complete an engineering degree. I can start over, can’t I? Like you said.”

 _Like I said._ Harry knows he’s staring, knows his mouth is kind of half-open and maybe a little lop-sided, knows he probably looks like a statue carved of a man seconds after someone threw a bucket of cold water over him.

“Come on, Styles,” Louis laughs, spinning on his heel as he leaves the path and practically skipping down the canal bank, and Harry is forced to start moving again so that he doesn’t get left behind.

“So you’ll be in Lyon,” Harry repeats, unable to quite register what this means as he wanders slowly over to the lip of the bank that Louis has just slid down. “With Liam. And Zayn.”

“And maybe Niall, he’s coming round to the idea,” Louis replies back over his shoulder, already several feet ahead and still descending. “And your factory is, what, thirty minutes by stagecoach from the main part of town?”

“Thereabouts,” Harry murmurs, struggling to process it all.

“That’s what Zayn said,” Louis nods, and Harry realises that Louis must have asked. That Louis had thought about it, had thought about Harry…

 _Don’t_ , Harry thinks, mentally shaking himself before he spirals into heart eyes and sappy poems. It’s just, his whole future has suddenly opened up in a way that is both bright and terrifying. 

Of course, it makes sense. Louis has been friends with Liam for most of his life, they're practically family, why wouldn’t he go where Liam was now? Harry can’t believe he hadn’t thought of this before, but even though Harry had told him to start again, he hadn’t realised that perhaps that could mean that Louis would…stay. Stay in his life, stay with his boys, _stay_. 

 _Fuck_.

Harry pulls up short again, halting in his tracks before he begins to follow Louis down the slope to the river bank. Louis isn’t going anywhere. Louis is going to be part of Harry’s life.

It’s wonderful, but it’s awful too, because how can Harry escape these feelings now? How can he spend months keeping his heart in check, years perhaps, if Louis is always there?

Harry blinks, realises that Louis is calling up to him from the water's edge, and Harry shakes his head instinctively, feeling like a lion caged.

“I just realised I need to go,” Harry hears himself saying, and as soon as the words are out he realises that that was a terrible knee-jerk reaction. He flounders desperately in his mind for some kind of reason, some kind of excuse, and comes up completely short.

“Why?” Louis asks, looking up at him in blatant confusion, and Harry grimaces.

_Because I need to go away and figure out how to be around you when I don’t know if you like men or if you like me or if your heart has been broken beyond repair by your life’s misfortune._

“Um,” Harry says. And then he turns, and begins to walk.

He gets all the way to the other side of the street before his legs lock up, and he realises what he’s doing.

 _This is not the correct way to handle a situation,_ he reprimands himself, and it’s like his insides are fighting now. He feels himself begin to turn back towards where he’s left Louis, and then back towards the road, and he’s just at such a loss that it almost doesn’t register that there’s a swan watching him.

“Oh Christ,” Harry yelps when he realises he has avian company. There’s maybe two steps between him and the ungainly beast, and he takes a step back in fright.

Except, in all the confusion of his mind vs body vs emotion vs swan kerfuffle, he hasn’t really taken the time to register where he’s standing. Which is, as it happens, on the other side of the street. At the unguarded edge of a canal. 

One of the ones that doesn’t have an embankment.

One of the ones that doesn’t have a fence.

There’s a second where Harry feels his leg meet air, and it seems that time has slowed, or perhaps he himself has sped up, because he can suddenly see the next few seconds before they happen. He knows that his left foot is going to plummet down, and being the long jumble of limbs and humanity that he is, there will almost certainly be a collision with the wall of the canal as gravity takes hold.

So in a split second of reason, Harry pushes with his right leg and propels himself further back, arcing out in a clumsy heap over the canal and dropping like a pin into it’s water, a safe distance from the stonework.

As he surfaces, he can see the stars, huge and bright and hanging just within his reach. And then he blinks the water from his vision, and they resolve into glass lanterns suspended from the branches of a wiry tree that leans out over the water. His feet can touch the bottom, he realises, though the water is up to the top of his chest.

He gasps a breath, trying to understand everything that has just happened, in order. It’s not easy.

“Harry?”

Harry splashes in fright, whirling slowly against the resistance of the river.

Louis is standing on the wall of the canal, staring at him with crossed arms and a blank look.

“Um,” Harry replies, staring at him as his brain stops and starts.

“I mean, if you weren’t keen on me moving to Lyon, that’s fair. This just seems like a bit of an overreaction,” Louis mutters dryly, a stoney figure against the fading light of the day.

“Um,” Harry says again, pushing wet hair from his eyes. “There was a swan.”

It’s Louis’ turn to look confused. “What?”

“I fell in here. Because there was a swan.”

Louis glances over his shoulder, but it’s clear from his expression when he turns back that the swan must be gone by now. “It attacked you?”

“No, just startled me,” Harry admits, and Louis lets out a long breath, his expression one of sheer disbelief.

“You may be the only person I’ve ever met who can end up in a canal just because a swan looked at you,” Louis sighs, staring down at Harry in confusion. “And that doesn’t really explain what was going on before.”

Harry wipes away the water that is dripping from his drenched fringe into his eyes, feeling incredibly self-conscious. He briefly considers just letting himself sink down into the water. Perhaps there's a whirlpool at the bottom that will swallow him up. It would be far less painless.

“Oh, that,” Harry says, and Louis nods shortly.

“Yes, that.”

Harry sucks in a breath of sweet evening air. He can see the reflection of the moon in the water beside him, out a little early like it’s keeping him company. He’d like to think it was telling him to be brave. It’s whimsy, but then, what isn’t. Especially in Bruges.

The water is cool, the summer evening inviting, and Harry feels a sudden and perfect clarity about it all.

He’s used to waiting things out, waiting for the perfect light, the perfect moment. But he knows, has seen, that if you wait too long that moment will just pass right by.

 _Start again,_ he’d told Louis. Maybe it was time he took his own advice. 

“I have to admit something,” he finds himself saying, and Louis is watching him patiently, quietly. “I might… I might feel a certain way about you that I shouldn’t.”

Louis opens his mouth to respond, but seems to think better of it. His had tilts a little to the side, as if to say, _go on_.

“I thought maybe if I just got through this summer, you’d be gone and I could move past it, you know? But then you said Lyon, and my whole brain just kind of…” Harry makes a whooshing noise and smacks the surface of the water to illustrate his point. A slew of water explodes in every direction from beneath his hand, shattering the moon into a silver muddle. “So uh, sorry. About that. And everything, I guess.”

Crickets fill the uncomfortable space following his words. Louis is silent, watching him with an unreadable expression. 

“Harry,” he says finally, his brow furrowing. “Is there a reason you think you shouldn’t feel that way about me?”

It’s not the answer Harry was expecting, and it takes him a moment to catch up.

“Sorry?”

“I mean, I’m not sure I understand where the whole, _Louis is forbidden_ idea seems to have come from,” Louis continues, one hand rubbing the back of his neck.

“Louis,” Harry intones darkly. “You can’t be serious.”

“Well, I mean, I guess I kind of- I mean I didn’t really make it clear that I like men, did I? Because I do. Like men. And you,” Louis replies staidly, watching Harry with earnest eyes.

Harry doesn’t know whether this information is the best or worst thing he’s ever heard. He wants to swim somersaults in the water, or possibly drown himself. It’s really touch-and-go as to which is the right action.

“It’s not that,” Harry frowns. “I mean, it was that a little. Thanks for clearing it up, or. I mean. But it’s, you’ve been through a lot Louis.”

“Yes,” Louis agrees, but like this doesn’t really answer his question.

“So you can’t, we can’t, you’re too- "

“Finish that sentence, I dare you,” Louis practically growls, and Harry feels kind of ridiculous having this conversation from where he’s standing chest deep in the canal.

“Louis,” Harry sighs, his voice carrying across the water, it echoes a little off the stone river walls. “You know what I mean. What you’ve been through, I just, I _can’t_. I know you have good intentions now, but I can’t have you wake up in three weeks and realise this was all just, I don’t know, a knee-jerk reaction. Your system in shock, or something. I like you too much. It’ll hurt _too much_.”

Louis says nothing for moment, just watches Harry with a frozen expression of disbelief. And then if Harry isn’t mistaken, he rolls his eyes, and begins to kick off his shoes.

“What are you doing?” Harry asks, and Louis shrugs.

“I can’t talk to you like this, I feel stupid.”

“So what are you-”

Harry doesn’t need to finish his sentence. Louis is leaning out over the water, barefoot now as he assesses the river, his reflection distorted by ripples and twinkling lights. And then he lunges forward, pulling his knees up and plunging into the water. The splash hits Harry square in the face, and he sputters as Louis surfaces beside him, wading only a little so that they’re face to face. The water is higher on Louis, nearly up to his neck, but he can stand.

“Ow,” Louis mutters, hopping slightly in the water, and Harry starts towards him.

“What’s wrong?”

“Ankle,” Louis grimaces as Harry reaches him. “I think I landed on a rock. Oh my god, ok, this hurts.”

Harry feels a little bit helpless at this particular moment. “Are you- do you need-“

“You’re an idiot,” Louis exclaims, wiping salty water form his lips as he straightens up with a pained wince, and Harry laughs perhaps a touch hysterically.

“I’m an idiot? You just jumped into a canal! Badly!” Harry exclaims. “You’re hurt.”

“It’s fine. Maybe you shouldn’t have fallen in. Like an idiot,” Louis replies gruffly, but then he’s grinning, he’s smiling and his eyes are filled with hope, and when he reaches for Harry’s shirt Harry lets himself be pulled forwards because reason and patience and caution are nothing in the face of blind and blinding _love_.

Louis’ lips taste like salt water and sunlight as they meet, and it feels like someone has released a canon ball straight into Harry’s chest. Louis draws him in as they kiss, fingers splaying in the hair at the base of Harry’s neck as the other hand clings to his shirt, and Harry has to give in to it. Has to allow himself to feel this, as though they’re on fire together even here in the water. The river ripples past as Harry wraps his arms around Louis’ waist underwater, pulling them closer, unable to help himself as he leans into the kiss, wanting more, more, _all_ of Louis. And this is ridiculous, this is a mistake, this is everything Harry has been fighting for days and weeks and here it is, a head-on collision.

He briefly thinks of how Louis had first appeared to him, like a river god, and the thought startles a laugh out of him that makes it's way past his lips. When it does, Louis pulls back immediately, frowning, and Harry shakes his head.

“No, Louis, that wasn’t- that was amazing,” he admits, trying to clear his head of Louis and the water and Louis. “I just- I told you, I can’t be your panic response.”

“You think that’s how I feel about you? That I’m not sure about this?” Louis asks, his voice a little soft around the edges, and it startles Harry how exposed he looks in this moment. With the rivulets of water running from his dripping hair down his sharp cheekbones, he looks young, and vulnerable, and beautiful. Harry wants to sigh with longing, but he has to give voice to his fears.

“I don’t know, Louis. After everything…”

“After everything, we start again,” Louis finishes, and the hand that was coiled in Harry’s shirt flattens to press against his chest. “I’ve been sad, Harry. And scared. And uncertain of, of so _many_ things. Except for you. I’m not confused, or hysterical, or latching on to the first person who offered me support. You’re wonderful, Harry. You’re full of energy, and life, and hope, and kindness. You’re also clumsier than I thought it was physically possible for a human being to be, and you need way more hugs than I think is strictly necessary per day, and your humour is far too reliant on fruit-based puns. You’re not my knight in shining armour. You’re not any port in a storm. You’re a full, complete, _wonderful_ being that I want in my life. My new life, that I get to choose. That I get to build. And I want _you_.” He’s looking at Harry with imploring eyes, searching, wanting to draw the truth out into the open. “Tell me you don’t feel the same. Tell me you think this isn’t me talking. You know me by now, Harry. This is me.”

Harry glances down at where Louis’ fingers are splayed against his chest, delicate but strong, and when he meets Louis’ gaze again he sees the force of Louis’ sincerity. He thinks of every moment they’ve spent these past weeks, every time he’d hear the truth in Louis’ tone, or watch those tiny glimmers of feeling that sparkled on Louis’ features. He thinks that after all of it, he can feel deep in his bones the truth.

And god dammit but Harry believes him.

He crashes back into Louis, and when their lips meet he wraps his arms around Louis and pulls him up. Louis responds instinctively, his legs wrapping around Harry’s waist as they cling together in the stream.

“Yes?” Louis asks breathlessly against Harry’s lips, and Harry laughs, their foreheads pressing together.

“Yes, Louis.”

 

*

 

Three hundred and sixty six steps is a lot to manage with a person on your back.

“Oh my god,” Harry gasps, setting Louis down unceremoniously as he lurches onto the top of the belfry. “Oh god, why did I agree to this. I think I’m going to die.” 

He falls back against the wall and slides to the floor. Louis shifts round so that Harry can lean against him as he rubs Harry on the back.

“Please don’t die Harry. If you die, I’m stuck up here,” Louis declares solemnly, poking Harry in the shoulder. “Then we both die. Very Shakespearian, but not how I’d planned the rest of my life to go.”

“You didn’t plan on dying in a Bruges belfry?”

“Funnily enough, it wasn’t in my grand scheme,” Louis says, pulling himself up by the uneven bricking of the wall. “I was rather looking forward to seeing Lyon. Maybe trying out a French accent to blend in with the local colour.”

“Please don’t-" Harry starts, but it’s too late, because Louis is already grinning at Harry.

“ _Ah, mon petite monsieur, please get off le floor,_ ” Louis rasps in a truly shocking version of a Frenchman’s lilt, and Harry can’t laugh because he still has no breath in his lungs, so he just kind of slumps onto the floor.

“You’re killing me Louis,” he murmurs against the cold stone, and Louis pokes him with his toe as he balances on his good foot. The un-sprained, un-stitched up leg.

“No, I thought we established you were killing me. By not getting up. Harry, get up. Get uuuuuup.”

Harry rolls onto his side. “This punishment is cruel and unusual.”

“You’re cruel and unusual,” Louis replies childishly, and Harry pushes his hands into the ground and forces himself upwards so that he’s at least sitting.

“Where is it?”

Louis rolls his eyes, reaching behind him to present the camera that he had held onto as Harry had dragged them up the stairs to the top of the Bruges belfry.

“Where do you want it?” Louis asks, and Harry is too tired to even take that innuendo. He just points at the window immediately in front of them, and lets Louis set up the tripod, still unable to bring himself to stand.

“You’re good at this. You could be my assistant,” Harry muses, and Louis rolls his eyes.

“Would I have to call you ‘sir’?”

“Most definitely,” Harry affirms, and Louis sighs.

“Guess I’m sticking with the engineering then. Shame.”

“Crying shame,” Harry agrees. “Hey Louis?”

“Mhm?” Louis muses, running his eyes over the set-up to make sure everything is in place before he turns to look at Harry. “Wha-"

Harry lunges up, grabbing Louis by the shirt and pulling him down so that he lands heavily on Harry’s legs.

“I’m walking wounded here you oaf,” Louis complains, but he’s grinning, and it’s he that pushes forward so he’s kneeling over Harry, he that brings their lips together. It’s soft and sweet as they kiss, alone in the belfry, and when they part Harry thinks Louis is looking at him like he’s some kind of miracle.

“I’m glad I met you, Harry,” Louis says fondly, almost breathlessly, and his eyes seem to shine. “You of all people, in this time, and this place. I’m just, glad.”

“Me too,” Harry murmurs, stroking a finger down Louis’ cheek, the sharp angles of his face never failing to capture Harry’s eye for beauty. “Now get off me so I can take a photo.”

Louis groans, shifting his weight so that Harry can shuffle from underneath him and stand up, taking in the view.

“It’s incredible!” Harry gasps, and Louis comes to stand beside him as they lean against the window, looking down over the sprawling town of stone cut through with hundreds of ribbons of water.

“You better start preparing yourself for carrying me back down,” Louis muses, and Harry jostles him.

“No,” Harry declares, stamping his foot. “No chance. I’ve decided we shall live up here forever. Get comfortable.”

“What if,” Louis says, pressing close to Harry, “When we get to the bottom, I make it worth your while?”

He grins at Harry, and Harry feels himself relenting. He somehow gets the impression that this will never wear off, the way Louis has cast such a spell on him.

“I’m holding you to that.”

Louis presses close to him, his lips ghosting Harry’s as he grinds their hips together. Harry’s breath catches in his throat, and Louis laughs long and low. 

“Teaser for you. Now get cracking man-servant,” Louis murmurs, but Harry pulls away, glaring.

“Would you like to exit the belfry via the stairs, or the window, Louis?”

“I’m sorry,” Louis corrects. “Not man-servant. Wonderful, beautiful, perfect Harry. Hero. Stallion. Legend of continental Europe.”

“Much better,” Harry says, leaning in for another kiss, just something quick that he can steal. Then he ducks under the curtain of his camera, lines his eyes up to the viewfinder, and takes a deep breath as he centres himself.

Louis is humming something lilting and pretty, and in his bell-like voice, the music sounds like light incarnate. Harry thinks perhaps he’ll never fully comprehend where Louis’ brightness comes from, after everything, but it’s real and brilliant and blazing stronger every day.

Harry eyes the world below him through his camera, lines up the shapes and patterns and shadows, waiting for the perfect moment when he can capture something true and real and perfect. 

Beside him, he can feel Louis’ fingers tracing patterns on his shoulder blades.

The light will align itself. He just has to wait, and see, and trust.

He has time.

 

*

 

**Author's Note:**

> Title from [ 'I Am The Antichrist To You'](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EewB7xHHIvE&feature=kp) by Kishi Bashi, which sounds nothing like what you'd expect a song with that name to sound like.


End file.
